“Wherever he sets his hand there is a cry (if not from the housetops, then – more miserably – within every heart): a cry for the redeeming hero, the carrier of the shining blade, whose blow, whose touch, whose existence, will liberate the land.”
Campbell, Joseph, The Hero with a Thousand Faces p.11
Oh hero! Wherefore art thou?
Not… Not coming? Have to wash hair? But… who will make my life awesome?
Sounds like a job for MOFH!
Yeah, shitty superhero name. MOFH: My own fucking hero. But in times like these [you know, the ones that really aren’t much different from the ‘times’ before] crying out for a hero isn’t going to save you from your own life. Might make the neighbors curse through the walls. Won’t give you flowing hair and rock hard abs.
Raised on a diet of fantasy & science fiction, I never quite gave up hope on magic and it’s ability to fix any number of problems. Long nose? Magic shrink. Avoid nasty people? Magic ring for invisibility. Bored? Magic closet to another world. Computer problems? Check out all the technology that hasn’t been invented yet.
Here I am ring-less, closet-less, and unable to teleport. Thanks Fiction! Thanks a lot!
Hence MOFH. Since no one is going to make all my wishes come true, I’ll do it myself. Haven’t I always worried about those damsels stuck in a tower guarded by a dragon? How could any of them really be so patient to wait around and not try to climb out the window themselves? When I was a kid, I often dreamed of running in at the last moment of a robbery or attack and saving the day. I’d bring that bad guy to justice and look cool doing it. So why am I content to wait around for some miracle instead of doing it myself? Fact: I’m not. I’m not sure why I haven’t taken a stand before. But now I am.
Back in Part 1, I described the excitement coursing through me as I wrote out my every last wish. Here they are in all their normal-person splendor:
20 wishes to fulfill in the 25th year of my existence. Possible? Yes. Hard as hell? Probably.
Wish me luck!