"If I go crazy then will you still
Call me Superman
If I'm alive and well, will you be
There holding my hand
I'll keep you by my side with
My superman might
Kryptonite" -Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down
A phone booth. A dirty, grimy phone booth. Trash everywhere. The government was supposed to take care of cleaning these, weren't they? Public works and all of that. Of course, the government was also supposed to do law enforcement, but that one always seemed out of their hands too. Funny how that happened, every time.
I tried to ignore it, tried to just put on my costume. Amazing, isn't it? Take of your nerdy glasses, put on some spandex, and you're a hero. A superhero. Superman, even. Yeah, that's me, Superman. That's who they loved, who they idolized. Not Clark Kent, NEVER Clark Kent. Of course they didn't worship Clark Kent! Why would anyone give a damn about a mousy, quiet, mundane reporter? A REPORTER, for Christ's sake!
No one cares about the guy who writes the story, only the guy who makes the story. You'd think I would be happy then, wouldn't you? I'm both. So even the occasional oddball who reads the "By Clark Kent" part of the news article would still be thinking about me. But it doesn't work that way. It's not that easy, never that easy.
It's enough to drive a man mad. Even a Superman. I mean, which one am I? Am I the quiet reporter, or the bicep-ridden hero? Glasses and tweed, or spandex and cape? What to wear, what to wear.
What hurts the most, the weirdest part, is that I'm jealous of myself. You would think I would never be, never need to be. But every time I see Lois staring at a picture in the paper, a picture that looks suspiciously like me in spandex, I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And when Superman is carrying Ms. Lane to safety, I can't help but feel sad, for Clark. Who am I anymore?
Nevermind, I don't have time for this. The bank on 32nd and 8th has been robbed, again. Third time this week. No time to sit and contemplate which identity is mine. Not even enough time to straighten my cape. Only enough time to dash out of the phone booth, trying frantically to fix the ride that can only come from wearing your briefs on the outside. Just my day, huh?
Call me Superman
If I'm alive and well, will you be
There holding my hand
I'll keep you by my side with
My superman might
Kryptonite" -Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down
A phone booth. A dirty, grimy phone booth. Trash everywhere. The government was supposed to take care of cleaning these, weren't they? Public works and all of that. Of course, the government was also supposed to do law enforcement, but that one always seemed out of their hands too. Funny how that happened, every time.
I tried to ignore it, tried to just put on my costume. Amazing, isn't it? Take of your nerdy glasses, put on some spandex, and you're a hero. A superhero. Superman, even. Yeah, that's me, Superman. That's who they loved, who they idolized. Not Clark Kent, NEVER Clark Kent. Of course they didn't worship Clark Kent! Why would anyone give a damn about a mousy, quiet, mundane reporter? A REPORTER, for Christ's sake!
No one cares about the guy who writes the story, only the guy who makes the story. You'd think I would be happy then, wouldn't you? I'm both. So even the occasional oddball who reads the "By Clark Kent" part of the news article would still be thinking about me. But it doesn't work that way. It's not that easy, never that easy.
It's enough to drive a man mad. Even a Superman. I mean, which one am I? Am I the quiet reporter, or the bicep-ridden hero? Glasses and tweed, or spandex and cape? What to wear, what to wear.
What hurts the most, the weirdest part, is that I'm jealous of myself. You would think I would never be, never need to be. But every time I see Lois staring at a picture in the paper, a picture that looks suspiciously like me in spandex, I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And when Superman is carrying Ms. Lane to safety, I can't help but feel sad, for Clark. Who am I anymore?
Nevermind, I don't have time for this. The bank on 32nd and 8th has been robbed, again. Third time this week. No time to sit and contemplate which identity is mine. Not even enough time to straighten my cape. Only enough time to dash out of the phone booth, trying frantically to fix the ride that can only come from wearing your briefs on the outside. Just my day, huh?