I AM EMPOWERED, pt.4: The Twitter-based YEAR ONE prose dealie continues! (Patreon)

<Note: You can check out I Am Empowered's previous installment here.

And now, back to Emp's first-person narration, taking place roughly around the beginning of Empowered vol.1: >

I AM EMPOWERED 

Chapter 2: WHAT IS THE SOUND OF ONE HAND (NOT) TWEETING? (pt.2)  

So, in summary: I've got no one I can REALLY talk to. Not my poor mom, not my erstwhile college friends, and definitely not my superpeers. 

I certainly haven't made any normal-human friends since I moved out here, either. Then again, how would I keep in touch with 'em, if I did?

See, part of my isolation is purely logistical: My suit has no pockets, so I can't carry a cell phone with me when I'm out caping. OMG, huh?

A superheroine with a handbag? I don't think so. A utility belt? My amazing supersuit flakes out whenever I wear anything over OR under it.

I tried some exercise-y armband dealies to carry my phone. Good for jogging, but less good for getting zapped by dragonbreath or lasers. 

After getting three(!) G-d armband-carried cell phones fried in a week's worth of action-packed caping, I finally gave up on carrying one.

Luckily, my service provider—name supplied upon request—was totally chill and understanding about replacing three phones in a week, huh? NO. 

Thus, I wound up as quite possibly the only female under age 80 in the entire city who doesn't carry a cell phone during most of the day.

Then again, on multiple and often notorious occasions, superhumans and texting have proven to be mutually—and disastrously—incompatible. 

If I may get all example-y: Remember when dumbass cape Propellerhead collided with the top of the Krieger Tower while texting and flying?

He knocked the building's TV transmission mast clean off and came shocked-gasp-ily close to killing hapless civilians in the streets below… 

…all because the clue-deficient jackass just HAD to immediately respond to a "S'UP, SUPAPLAYA?" text from fellow douchecape Paper Tiger.

Similarly, one of my sweeter supervill takedowns was aided massively by the fact that he was texting at the time. (More on that one later.) 

I should note that my supersuit can, with some difficulty, actually make a telephone call, but only when its hypermembrane is fully intact. 

I do the "telephone" thumb-and-pinkie-extended gesture, then repeat a phone number aloud until the suit deigns to recognize my request…

…et voilà, I'm all telephonic, which would be crazy-awesome IF ANYONE ON EARTH STILL BOTHERED WITH PHONE CONVERSATIONS, STUPID SUPERSUIT.

Do I LOOK like I'm a doddering 40-something, oh weirdly behind-the-times supersuit? Who the heck actually calls anyone directly, nowadays?

Spending my capetime hours without a phone gives me plenty of time alone with my thoughts… WAY too much time, as it turns out.

Without texts or Facebook updates or Angry Birds to distract me, I have puh-lenty of time to spin up my mind's Hamster Wheel of Anxiety.

Given how craptastically my so-called career's gone, I have the luxury of agonizing over both what MIGHT happen and what already DID happen.

If I tire of worrying about future humiliating failures, well, I can always wallow in my excruciating memories of past humiliating failures.

I'm extra glad that my suit's hypermembrane prevents my fingernails from getting damaged by nervous chewing—though I still chew 'em, anyway.

(Icky side note: Chewing my invulnerable, suit-shielded fingernails is kinda neat, as they taste a little bit like licking an AA battery.)

After a full day of A) worrying about traumatic failure or B) actually experiencing traumatic failure, I waddle back to my empty apartment...

…and fling myself facedown on my empty bed, and all my ill-suppressed emotional crap starts venting out of me, mostly through my tear ducts.

Really, the term "venting" is way too positive. After my nightly emo-bulimic purges, I never feel much better, just wrung-out and exhausted.

Then, my stomach knotted, I stare blankly up at the ceiling for most of the night, until sleep finally stops my Hamster Wheel's spinning.

After countless sleep-deprived nights, I've become a scathing art critic of the sweepingly epic, popcorn-textured panorama of my bedroom ceiling.

Clearly, the drywall guy was just mailing it in when he textured the ceiling's northwest corner with such overt sloppiness and imprecision. 

And what's the deal with that unsightly ridge near the light fixture? You seriously need to work on your trowel technique, you inartistic hack.

What I can't tell anyone—'cause, hey, there's no one to tell—is that I'm angstily anxious if not outright terrified almost constantly, now.

I'm not just scared of getting publically humiliated for the bajillionth time, though that really does scare me quite a bit, I assure you.

Getting beaten up, stripped of your powers, and ropeburnily hogtied by a bad guy is already traumatic and degrading for a newb superheroine.

Videos of your beating, stripping, and hogtying being uploaded to YouTube for vicious comment fodder? Even more traumatic and degrading!

Lately, though, my fear of public mortification has lost the #1 spot on the Keeps Me Awake, Fearful, And Chewing My Nails At Night hitlist.

Increasingly, I'm scared that I'm gonna die in the line of superduty. (I've barely avoided getting Reapered a few different times, lately.)

Twice this week alone, I've been seized by the mind-shattering, blood-freezing insight that HOLY CRAP I AM GOING TO DIE RIGHT NOW FOR REALS.

Gotta admit: The rush of relief you feel after a close brush with (or a dry-humping by) death is ridonkulously, almost orgasmically intense.

Honestly, any sexual climax I've ever had—not that I've had very many, really, until lately—seems anticlimactic next to OMFG I DIDN'T DIE. 

After my Asymtotically Near-Death Experience with MegaChopper's 50-foot axe, my hands shook uncontrollably for a good three or four hours.

Plus, my knees went all weak, I rubber-legged around so shakily I that I looked drunk, and I blurted hundreds of variations on "Holy Crap!" 

Nerving yourself up to face danger is one thing. Repeated situations in which you're completely certain of imminent death? Quite another. 

But Real Superheroines Don't Cry, and I'm also sure that Real Superheroines Never Find Themselves Too Scared To Get Out Of Bed, Somedays.

My teammates all seem to take the existential terror underlying our work in stride, while I'm struggling desperately just to not break down.

Then again, it's tough to get much of an emotional read on stainless steel golems, faceless mecha, gelatinous blobs, or bandaged-up mummies.

Y'know, that might be one reason why superheroes wear masks: So our abject terror and "WTF?!" facial expressions can remain safely hidden.

I'd kill for a friend I could actually talk to about this, someone I could unburden myself to, someone whose shoulder I could snivel on.

I'd maybe even wish for (ahem) A Lover to hold me and comfort me and indulge my whining, but I know that's straight-up Crazy Talk, obvsly. 

(Out here, my horrifically botched, wholly disastrous attempts at hook-ups have been even more mortifying than my friend-finding failures.)

So, at long last, we come to my elaborate, convoluted, essentially delusional rationale for the 140-character-format of what you're reading.

Except you AREN'T reading this, because, dear reader, you don't exist. Oopsies! No one is reading this crap, except for me.

The fact is, I'm writing these narcissistically confessional and self-pitying anecdotes for a Twitter account that I'll never actually use.

I'd never dare to post these tweets online, as—Big Surprise, here—blabbing away your Secret Identity is frowned upon in superhero circles. 

Instead, I like to IMAGINE that I'm tweeting to my besties, that I'm part of a social network, that I'm not alone and scared and friendless.

Late at night, too worry-rattled to sleep, I type up these imaginary non-tweets in a Word document, pretending as if someone could see them.

I do a wordcount on every one of these never-to-be-posted tweets, making sure they could fit into Twitter's character limits. Pathetic, huh?

Mo' pathetic: Sometimes I even imagine that these unsent tweets are getting replies, that someone's telling me everything will be all right. 

You might not exist, Imaginary Person Reading These Tweets, but somehow your phantom (non)presence is still a tiny—if deluded—comfort to me. 

The grimness: If I do end up getting killed—which seems quite possible, if not statistically certain—then Mom will someday read this stuff.

When she comes out here to gather up my belongings, at some point she'll find this file among the documents on my hard drive. 

Almost every night, I agonize over whether or not I should delete this file, so Mom wouldn't have to learn about her daughter's sad reality.

Wouldn't be too comforting, after I die tragically, for Mom to find out that I was lost and terrified and in way over my empty little head.

The truth is, I'm already a bitter disappointment to myself. I'm not sure if I could cope with being a disappointment to her, too.

Then again, I'd be dead, and wouldn't have to worry about coping with anything anymore, would I? (Which sounds like a relief, really.) 

Still, I really, truly, sincerely, absofuckinglutely hope you never end up reading this, Mom. 

And if you are, um, well… Hi, Mom!

 <Next week: The actual fun part (IMHO) of I Am Empowered kicks off, as we begin serialization of a long chapter about the manifold challenges of superheroic "R2R" (rooftop-to-rooftop) jumping, which turns out to be notably more difficult than the movies and videogames make it look!>