Bullet-Proof Butt

I suppose it's about time I started blogging again, even though I'm truly not in the mood. Everything is so messed up beyond belief, I don't know how I'm ever going to right all those wrongs. Upon saying this, I think I now realise the pressures of being a uber-superhero or "salvador" of the world: everyone turns to you for guidance, expects you to be omniscient, omnibenevolent, omnipotent and in short, fucking perfect. Robin has Batman to make him see the light when he runs astray with too many "Holy [insert noun]!"'s; but Superman has nobody to save his muscular bullet-proof backside.

So here's what I call the Superman-syndrome... Everybody likes you in theory, but nobody wants to love you. Everybody is your friend in theory, but nobody really understands you. Everyone is in awe of your super-powers, but nobody can see that nothing was gift-fed to you, and that you had to scrabble in the dirt for it like everyone else. Hence, in the end, although you are surrounded by geniunely friendly faces and benevolant smiles, you feel lonelier than ever. I would rather walk along an empty highway rather than a crowded street when lonesome. Why? Because in emptiness you can't see the indifference written across the faces of everyone who passes you by. Except I don't have a bullet-proof butt like Superman. And I don't wear propaganda in the form of spandex suits, fluorescently colored underwear, and capes that are air-resistance-free. He's like an underwear ad that defies all the laws of physics.

Well, whatever...