I AM EMPOWERED, pt.13: The Twitter-based YEAR ONE prose dealie continues!

<Note: You can check out I Am Empowered's previous installments with this tag.

And now, back to Emp's first-person narration in (old) Twitter-based 140-character format, taking place roughly around the beginning of Empowered vol.1. This brief installment is more of a quick character sketch than a proper chapter, but what the heck:>

MOOD SWINGS AND SUPERTHINGS

Oh, but the superhero game is all about the ludicrous, dizzying mood swings, from the laughable and goofy to the terrifying and apocalyptic.

One minute, you're trying to avoid killing a normal-human thug. The next, YOU'RE trying to avoid getting killed by a fully superhuman enemy.

Police and firefighters arguably have tougher jobs than we capes, but at least they have SOME idea of the scale of threats they might face.

Every shift on watch at the HomeyCrib, I don't know if I'll be called out to face a nonpowered purse snatcher dressed up like an animal...

...or a 40-story Cosmic Horror from Beyond Time, here to scarf up all life on earth as eagerly as I would attack a tube of raw cookie dough.

Last week, bored yet anxious, I made the mistake of idly scrolling through the HomeyCrib's database of Threat Files and Hazard Scenarios.

As a mere Associate Member of the Superhomeys, I can access only the lowest-level lists of Nightmare Crap That Could Befall Us At Any Time.

But just the Minor Everyday Superdangers I read about left me queasing in the bathroom, trying not to hork up 150 calories of Skinny Mini.

Of the scenarios I'd glanced through, even the least threatening could, theoretically, result in the deaths of dozens of innocent civilians.

And who would be on hand to save them? Close-up on me at the bathroom sink, staring fixedly at my own reflection's stupid, gaping face.

My thoughts—bad ones, of course—began racing furiously. The Anxiety Hamster in my mind started cranking frantically away at its wheel.

How am I gonna save anybody? An unproven, newbie cape, with a less-than-ideal body squeezed into the Worst Superheroine Costume Ever Seen?

Armed with flaky superpowers, precious little experience and zero self-confidence, a laughable joke cape like me is supposed to Save The Masses?

Good thing I had the mask on, so I didn't have to see my reflection's deer-in-the-headlight eyes bulging wide with apprehension and dismay. 

I'm gripping the sink hard, holding on for dear life, heart hammering away wildly. Anxiety is warping my perceptions like a funhouse mirror.

Some remote, isolated part of my mind is coolly observing, "Golly gosh, I seem to be experiencing a panic attack. Isn't that interesting!"

Worse, this dread triggers recognition of my most feared emotional chasm: the yawning gap between my idealized Ego and my crappy Identity. 

Real Me, detached, identity-free Ego, is pure awesomeness and coolness. Identity Me, Elissa, is a loathsome sack of failure and inadequacy. 

These brutal epiphanies occur only a few, brief times a year, thankfully; if they lasted more than 30 seconds, I'd surely have to kill myself.

Dry, intellectual awareness that this is just a neurochemical glitch is of no use against the crippling spasm of emotional agony seizing me.

Trembling before the mirror, I sob a wet, choking moan, a noise so pathetic that it suffuses me with a blinding flare of self-loathing.

For an agonizing few seconds, contempt and hatred and scorn for myself wash over me so thoroughly that I'm drowning in self-disgust.

My stupid, Guava-Hydrafull-coated lips are trembling visibly as I whisper hoarsely, "I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this."

Ah, but then I lean into the mirror, glaring at my masked reflection, desperately willing the weakness away with sheer, grinding intensity.

Breathe, you idiot. Puffing and panting, I wrestle 

My teeth—damn, I need to find a new whitening toothpaste—are gritted as I snarl, "I can DO this. I can DO this. I can DO this." 

I'm gripping the sink even harder now, staring myself down. Naturally, at this point, my superstrong grasp shatters the basin's porcelain.

The bathroom sink explodes like a grenade. The faucet hoses freely, spraying water everywhere, particularly in my face. Now, I'm laughing.

Sistah Spooky sashays into the bathroom, cape swirling dramatically, cool and perfect and haughty as ever, while I'm soaked and giggling. 

Opens her mouth to speak, says nothing, shakes her head, flounces into a stall. I'm sputtering and feeling like an idiot, but in a good way.

Next time on I AM EMPOWERED: A longer chapter, this time about dramatic entrances and the botching thereof.

TOMORROW ON THIS HERE PATREON: Looks like a final sketch dump of May art requests from various tiers as I make a few announcements about that Patreon feature going forward.