I was wearing this exhibit of embroidered awesomeness one day when I was suddenly overcome by an overwhelming hankering for a hunk o' cheese. I quickly pulled into a pizzeria located in one of the thousands of cookie cutter strip malls cluttering suburbia, and promptly made my intentions known, "I'll have a large quattro fromaggi with double cheese, stat!". The pimply faced artisan's vacant gaze conveyed that my forcefulness and spontaneity may have impressed and unnerved him, but I would be penalized for my lack of preparedness, "20 minutes" he drooled. Well played pizza boy, you won this round. As I bided my time exploring the meretricious and tawdry bazaar, a veritable treasure-trove of plastic delights from the far-off and mysterious orient, I realized Pizza Boy had forgotten to ask my name. Panic swept over me. What if they gave my melted cheese extravaganza of the gods to an interloper? Had this been a ruse cleverly orchestrated by my newly acquired nemesis? When I nervously returned for the pie 20 minutes later, my otto fromaggi was patiently awaiting me like an old friend. An old friend that smells like cheese. My pizza boy adversary was nowhere to be seen, undoubtedly lying in wait, watching, scheming. My stomach tightened, how would the new pizza girl in front of me know that that particular pie belonged to me as much as I belonged to it? Was she in cahoots with Pizza Boy? Was this Pizza Boy in disguise? She smiled, flashing a mouth full of twisted metal and wires. A CYBORG! But then without question or discourse she happily handed me my steaming box of curdled coagulated dairy. Both it and the bill were labeled "For Spider-Man". I still have that bill proudly displayed on my refrigerator in the spot unjustly proud Mom's usually reserve for the paste fume induced spastic mess they delusionally call their toddler's "art". Whenever I'm feeling blue I look at it and say "Yeah. I AM Spider-Man". It doesn't really make me feel any better, just kinda fractured.