There are some fifty comic book TV shows slated for current or potential production on the small screen. Presuming each is not geared for an entirely different demographic, there’s some number of people who are watching a shit ton of these caped dramas with CGI fireballs twice an hour.
With the exception of the ones involving chicks in skin tight Spandex suits you imagine might have a handy pee-hole flap, you need to ask yourself, how old am I again? The movement from animation to live-action millennials providing extended narratives on the names of bad guys and their complicated plans is no excuse. Be your own superhero in your community. Or get loaded and punch a loud guy at the bar. Both are superior options.
The teacher who told you to dream big meant about up until twenty-two or so. Still acceptable would be imagining super-powered vagina muscles. You’re two hours into a post-coital nap across the room and your dick’s still in the Krypton mulcher. Imagine the stories you’ll have to tell.
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