I'm really sick of super-hero movies. The perfectly bronzed and chiseled face stuffed into the ridiculous suit. Add a cape, or silly gadgets (a grappling hook from a belt would have you windmilling sideways, dammit, not straight up) and you have the complete picture.
I should know, I see the same kinds of movies advertised when I check under every car in the parking lot at the theater. I know it makes no sense, but I just heave up on the bumper and take a look. I used to think I was checking for dangerous leaks or something, but honestly its just to satisfy a mental itch I can't quite scratch.
And the trouble it gets me into! You'd think people would be happy with me seeing if their cars are leaking fuel, but no, its all "What are you doing!", "Get away from my new sedan!", and my all-time peeve "I'm going to call the police!".
Jokes on them - because then I'll be forced to examine every gun, and unload it, checking each bullet. The older officers know that I'm just "like that" and give it up without a fuss, but the newer guys are too nervous and end up shooting me or parts of themselves.
I can't help that really. I must know HOW MANY BULLETS there are. I don't expect you to understand. You just need to step away from what I need to check and let me get on about my business.
After the bullet-counting is over, I like to take a brisk walk downtown.
No, I can't fly. Stop asking silly questions or I'll come over and measure every wire in your house.
I love glass lobbies. The revolving doors are so neat. It takes me only 100 revolutions to make sure they are operating properly, and I count the number of lights that are reflected as I push. Sometimes I push too fast - its my super-strength - and the whole assembly shatters into pieces.
Most building managers know who I am, so they don't call the police (MUST COUNT BULLETS) and some have even installed heavy-duty glass to withstand my testing. How considerate.
The business district testing makes me hungry, so I head on over to the local fast food buffet. Lifting each tray 10 times, and looking underneath for leaks and holes, I settle in with a large platter of arranged food.
I eat each one without using my pinky or index finger, making sure to fold the napkins THREE TIMES LENGTHWISE to complete the meal. This takes some time, and the employees usually leave me the keys to lock up. The less insightful ones call the police - who have been following me in an unmarked car.
They usually hop out and explain that its best to leave me the keys and just go home.
I'm very tired after all that, so I head on down to the luxury hotel. In the elevator, I press all EVEN BUTTONS, stopping and waiting until the highest even-numbered floor is reached at last.
I then pace out the NUMBER OF BULLETS divided by BUFFET TRAYS and knock on the door. If someone answers, I briefly explain myself while securing the bed for sleep. Its better if it is empty. They tend to call the police more than anyone, but that just results in a lot more BULLET COUNTING until I can sleep again.
Only then can I finally sleep, after blinking 25 times.
I'm just living my life, why is that so hard to understand?
