They Don't Give Awards for Courage in the Face of Papercuts

Growing up, I always wanted to be a cop. All the other kids on the playground ran around pretending to be UltraDude and Magma Lady and pretended the unpopular kids were the Mad Doctor of Bludarnvia or whatever, and I put on tiny aviators and wheeled around on a bike with a siren, and I waited for the “heroes” to drop off the kids so I could take ’em to the slammer.

Now I’m grown up, and I’ve got a real badge and a real car and a real gun, and I’m doing the same thing. And it’s about as fun as it was when I was a kid. Superhero overhears a bank heist plot from a state away? I process a criminal. Hostage situation? Speedy guy runs in, rescues everyone, I process a criminal. They get all the action; I get all the paperwork.

At night I stare at my certificate from the academy and bandage my papercuts. I page through the paper looking for positions at research labs and think about calling my insurance agent to see if they cover injuries related to chemical spills.

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