HOW TO TELL IF YOU'RE A SUPERHERO

Your nickname in high school was “That weird kid who jumped nine stories to put out an apartment fire with his ice breath.”

When a coworker asks where you went last night you accidentally blurt out “Jakarta.”

Surviving that nuclear blast has been a mixed blessing at best.

Your fascination with a particular animal has transcended from “hobby” to “motif.”

You tend to say, “Or my parents died in vain!”, even when deciding on a sconce.

For someone with several billion dollars who can sleep with anyone they desire you’re kind of a doleful son of a bitch.

Your closest companion is someone 20 years your junior who has a diminutive version of your exact same name (i.e., “Boy Lou”).

You tend to get into fights with the same three people.

When you say you’re driven by a “personal vendetta” you don’t conclude with “against Kinkos.”

Your military experience consists of two space wars and a tussle with the Lava Men.

What some may consider your “goody-two-shoe nature” you know as the very reason there’s a still a Kansas.

You have to remember to say “Ow” when shot.

For a supposed mid-tier executive at a biotech firm you seem to have spent an inordinate about of your teens and twenties in a monastery learning budo ninjutsu.

You’ve Googled “cowls.”

You have a contentious relationship with the local authorities, the public, the press and that evil cabal of body-morphing mentalists.

Whenever you get a CNN Breaking News email your first thought is, “I better go ask Mr. Patrillo if I can have the afternoon off again.”

Most of your romantic relationships end in plummets.

You have a unitard and a rich back-story, but you’re not a wrestler.

Your career path has been dictated to a large degree by aliens.

You save people without thought of personal safety, remuneration or resumé-building.

You’ve pimped the hell out of your Leatherman.

When someone says, “Did you hear about Mom?” you automatically respond “Oh God, they killed her because of me, didn’t they?”

You belong to a group that’s sort of like the Kiwanis Club, only your meeting hall orbits in space.

You recognize old friends in mythology books.

You have a predilection for tight spandex, masks, capes and kneepads, but no ball-gags.

Whenever someone says there’s no life on other planets you exclaim, “Oh, like your earth is one constant party!”

Your moral code is so strong that rabbis have told you to lighten up.

Your base of operations consists of more than just a laptop, cell phone number and favorite chair at Starbucks.

Sometimes you accidentally start your signature with “The Amazing.”

Your MySpace page has 43,287 friends, all in peril.