Interlude, part the third

As I lean against the lamppost I realize: maybe I didn't call her. Maybe I'm waiting here for no reason. Was it just a thought that turned into reality for me, again? Damn. I wish I wasn't hooked on this stuff. I wish I was clean. I wish I could wake up in the morning like most people and not have an immediate need for a "fix." Fucking comic books. They are just way too accessible for most people. They suck you in and won't let you go.

I take another cigarette out of the pack in my pocket and look at the street light. "The city of San Francisco is doing a great job of keeping these working," I think to myself. "And they're well painted. Not garish."

I wait for her approaching car, wondering if this is all something I have made up in my mind. Am I really Spiderman? Or am I the Incredble Hulk? I just don't know anymore.

As another car climbs the hill and then passes, I decide to head home. Taking the Superman comic book out of my breast pocket, I pause for a moment before tossing it into the trashcan. "I don't need this," I think to myself, "I'm a real person, with feelings and needs." Just then I see a golf shop across the street. (OK, in reality we all know that there are no golf shops along fisherman's wharf in San Francisco, but give me some artistic license here!)

"Ah, now there's an obsession I can really get into."

$3000 later, I am "cool."