A Guide to Being a Superhero...Therapist? (Guide to Being, Novella Two)

Bring An Asprin and a Taser. Always

Superheroes. The stuff of hundreds of legends, books, comics, and movies. The inspirations of children and adults alike. Fighters of aliens and epic villains and the occasional clone. Capes, iconic themes, and beautiful yet unnecessary fighting styles.

Bull. Crap.

I gripped my phone tighter, "The pervert who decided that all female superheroes are frightfully skinny, wear swimsuits to fights, and are basically Femme Fatales, should be tarred and feathered. Publicly. In a swamp in Florida where alligators can devour him!"

Mira's laugh carried through space to my ear. I glowered at yet another magazine.

Firebird's Lack of Thigh Gap; Political Statement? Or Laziness??

And of course, the cover zoomed in on where my thighs touched.

I wanted to rip it to shreds. There were days I hated L.A. No. I didn't have a thigh gap. My thighs were thick as pythons, and just as easily used as a strangling weapon. (Which was how I needed to employ them against the editor of that magazine.)

It wasn't so much the comment that bothered me as the lack of privacy. There I was, minding my own business, saving the world, and some newspaper decided to show my blown up thighs to everyone on the street. Not. Cool.

"We may have taken down one part of the media's ridiculousness, but the other parts continue to cause you grief," Mira agreed.

"Uggghhh. I hate 'em," my nostrils flared.

"I know. But at least you've got your own fan club, right?"

"Shut up, Simmons."

Mira laughed. I rubbed my forehead. That I even had fans both shocked and honored me. And made me incredibly uncomfortable as they spent countless hours trying to pinpoint my identity, writing fanfiction, and all the things that fangirls do. Not that I could really judge. I had been one-hundred percent in love with Karl Urban's Eomer for years. (I'd also had a short-lived-devotion to Chris Evans' Captain America until I got my powers. I could not bear "superhero" movies. Low-key still loved Tom Hiddleston.)

"Come on, they aren't that bad," Mira consoled me.

"Awkward, though. And super difficult to talk to," I turned down another street. "Anyway, how's your...internship?"

"It's been amazing! It's a lot of work, and the wage gap drives me crazy, but I love what I'm doing."

I scowled, "What's your boss's number?"

"Kim."

"I won't stand for it, Mira, and I certainly will do something about it. For you and all the women at your job."

"Well...," Mira's hesitation faded into relief, "since you aren't doing it just for me..."

"That's my girl," I smirked, already forming my intimidating roast.

"Alright," a ding sounded from my phone, "I sent you the number. Just don't mention who told you about it."

"I'm not stupid."

"Uh-huh."

"You're one to talk," I stepped into a park and sat on a bench. "You're the one who believed me when I told you that broccoli is actually tiny trees."

"I was five."

"Whatever. How is your ol' supervillain doing?"

Mira and her ex-supervillain archaeologist boyfriend James had been dating a little over a year and a half.

"He's good," Mira's tone brightened considerably.

I bit back a grin. The pair was adorable and had given me the highest of high standards for any relationships. Which was maybe why I remained single. Or maybe, it was because I was a superhero, and finding a guy with shared life-experience was a little tricky.