This one's for Chris...an ex-boyfriend who actually inspired me to write something.

“The Superhero’s Girlfriend Monologue, or: For Those of Us Whose Boyfriends Don’t Have Time for a 'Real' Relationship”

Damnit, not again. Couldn’t this have happened on any other day? I wanted to break great news stories, not be the subject of one. I wonder if I can ask Evil Guy over there if I can sit down a moment. It’s not like it matters, but my feet are killing me in these pumps. Then again, I’d hate to be his wench over there in that ridiculous leather catsuit number. That is so 1964. What does she see in this jerk anyway? Then again, with a getup like that, you know those two are into some freaky shit.

Not like my Mr. Perfect, right? Then again, being in a relationship with a superhero ain’t no picnic either. Sometimes I wonder if constantly getting kidnapped is the only way I can get his attention. I know he has to save the world and all, but would half an hour over coffee during my lunch break really matter?

Still, it’s not like he’s the only thing in my life. I was actually up for a promotion on the network to be an anchor instead of just another correspondent. But no, with how often I was held hostage, I became a “liability” to the network. Now I’m just behind a desk pushing papers as a glorified copy editor.

And I know he means well, but comments like “Well, maybe that’s just fate’s way of telling you that you should just stay at home and let me take care of you.” don’t exactly act as a consolation prize, even if it is just his All-American masculine alter-ego talking. He must think that the rest of the world and I are complete idiots if he believes that just by changing clothes, the part in his hair and putting on a pair of glasses render him completely unrecognizable. At least I know it’s him. I mean, otherwise why would Evil Guy over there keep kidnapping me?

Ok, finally. He’s getting around to escaping the trap and kicking some ass after Evil Guy’s pontificating monologue. And of course, the former hardass bitch is playing the “pity me because I loved the wrong man” card. I don’t know who the bigger dope is: her for thinking that would actually work, or him for actually buying it.

Oh well, here we go again as the fortress of doom’s self-destruct kicks in. As much as I bitch about him, I love these brief moments in his arms, flying off into the sunset before some other crisis pops up on the other side of the world to take him away from me.

Then again, I can’t help but laugh at night when he comes home in his suit and tie, pretending he doesn’t know what happened and asking how my day went. For someone into this sort of role playing, he isn’t that adventurous in bed. I mean, is the missionary position the only one on your planet? Would it kill you to let me go cowgirl?