Last week, I saved a guy.  It was nothing big, really, no bad guys involved.  Just a normal twenty-something guy with long greasy dark hair who forgot to look while crossing the street.  I flew down and picked him up, setting him out of harm's way. 

He was so cute and apologetic, big eyes behind his glasses.  He'd been listening to Tool or something too loud on his ipod and hadn't heard the semi honking his horn.  I set him back down and bid him good luck crossing the street.  I didn't spend any time talking to him and so I never found out that he was an artist.  Not just any artist, but a comic book artist.

So what do I find in the paper this morning?  A picture of the superheroine who saved his life.  Kind of. 

Look at it!  It looks NOTHING like me.  First of all, my boobs aren't that big and my waist isn't that small (and I hate to say it, but I think it's gonna stay that way, folks).  Second, I don't wear skintight leather.  Don't comic book artists realize how long it would take to get into that kind of thing.  Finally, the little diamond showing off my belly?  Please!  I'd have to cut back on the beer, and that's just not something I'm willing to do yet.  Beer helps me through the long lonely nights.  Beer is good.  Beer is my friend.  So is whine, which is what I'm doing right now.

But I dunno.  For some reason that picture makes me laugh.  I guess it's something about people's perceptions of you and how very different they are from who you really are.  So for now, it stays.