So, when I divorce John, will that make him “Professor Ex?”

Actually, I would probably make a shitty “X-Men (Man? Tense agreement is a thing, or so I’ve heard). Granted I do have what lesser humans could consider to be “super powers,” but unlike in the comics (yeah, yeah, I know “graphic novels; now fuck off), they have no practicality in the real world.

  • Caffeine no effects me, although I wish it did (oh how I wish to God it did); I could chew on coffee grounds and still fall asleep in a standing position
  • I can open stubborn jars with a teaspoon (which granted, is more of a “retarded MacGuyver helpful hint,” but still)
  • I no need alarm clock to awaken at a given time; I just put the order in, and my sleep-deprived brain does the rest
  • My wrist stops watches (the old wind-up ones, not the battery ones. Damn you, Radium!!)
  • I instinctively know when the television is on because I can feel the electrons in the air; think “Spidey-Sense, only dumber, as if that’s possible
  • I know when phone will ring a split second before it actually does (landline, that is. I’m old)

And just like the your standard-issue Superhero, I have a really lame vulnerability:


Well, fungal spores, to be exact. “Mushrooms” just sounds more fucked up.

One inhalation of said savory Death Messenger, and my asthma does the Macarena, leaving me puking, wheezing, gasping for air, and in need of a quick shot of Prednisone to the ass, which keeps me from keeling over for another day, but also makes me fatter than usual.

I was thinking I could probably could take the alias “Timekeeper,” although John prefers “Buster,” for obvious reasons (one being that he’s an asshole).

One glare with my emasculating “Wife-O-Vision” can reduce a once strong and confident man into a jittery mess of self-doubt and embarrassingly girl-like apologetics.

Up, up, and away indeed.

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