When I was little, I was obsessed with Wonder Woman. I lived for her live-action show. If I ever met Lynda Carter, I would probably faint. When every one else got Spiderman or Superman underoos, I asked for Wonder Woman ones. I got Batman ones. Boo.

My cousins and I often played Superfriends. This consisted of us wrapping towels around our necks and walking around the block. If I didn't get to be Wonder Woman, I pouted and threw tantrums. So, my cousins decided to just let me be Wonder Woman to avoid the drama.

My obsession was bad. I wanted a Wonder Woman doll. I got Batman. Boo.

It got so bad that whenever I was stressed out, I would stand off to the side and twirl around praying that I would become Wonder Woman. I would walk off and just spin, waiting for the burst of light to change me into my tight short, bustier, and tiara. Then, I could solve all my worries by tossing people aside and strut around like I was almighty. Plus I would be gorgeous and everyone would be in awe of me. Did I mention the outfit?

So, now, when I am stressed, I run off to the gym, put on my tight shorts and sleeveless tee. I toss around heavy weight and strut around like I own the place. I have people staring at me... not sure if it's in awe... but they stare. I guess I got what I wanted. Except for the tiara. Later.  ¶ 11:44 PM