Blogger's Archives

February 2005

Wednesday 2 February 2005 06:59 GMT

Q: How many times stronger than the average man are you?

A: I really don't know. Comparing myself with "the average man" is a bit like comparing the sun to a faulty candle.

Q: What have you done to test your limits?

A: I think I've been answering that over the past days. Here's a few more examples.

Q: What's the heaviest thing you've ever lifted?

A: Hmmm... That would probably have been a cruise-liner. It was in dry docks, receiving a major overhaul. I had to work my way, hand-over-hand, under the hull to find a suitable balancing point so that I could raise the entire massive iron and steel ship completely off the ground. I felt the weight trying to resist me, but I never doubted myself as I stretched my arms straight, lifting the hundred-foot long vessel over my head, supporting every last ounce of its enormous weight on my two shapely arms.

I could have held the ship up like that for ages, but all its mass was being focused on my feet and the concrete platform I was standing on was not designed for that. It shattered beneath me and I was pushed, like a nail into wood, deep into the artificial stone. My hands were still on the bottom of the vessel, but its bulk was supported by the concrete once again. (In frustration, I punched my little fist right through the eighteen-inch-thick hull.)

Q: What's the biggest thing you've ever destroyed?

A: Buildings. Dozens of them. Mostly with my hands, bit by bit. I've also caused constructions to collapse on top of me by kicking away support pillars. I destroyed a large house once by walking around its perimeter with one half of my body inside and the rest outside. My face, chest and groin just carved through the thick exterior wall as I strolled happily through its cross-section until there wasn't enough left to hold up the rest of the edifice. And on several occasions I've done major demolition work with nothing but my superbreath.

Q: Have you ever thrown a battle tank into orbit?

A: I can't say I have. One time though, I threw a guy's motorbike so far up it disappeared from my sight. Even though I waited (whilst holding its protesting owner tucked under my arm), it never came down, so I guess it must've escaped Earth's gravitational field. If a tank weighs less than about a hundred tons (and I think they do) then I reckon I could probably do the same trick with one. I might try it some day.

The closest I've come to actually performing that particular feat was on another occasion when I was chasing after a bunch of guys who were in two cars. I caught up with the first vehicle (it was only going about sixty miles an hour) and with my hands around the back of it, stopped it dead in its tracks. That sudden deceleration was too much for those inside. I lifted the car and its messy contents over my head and threw it at the second auto. Even though my target was already four miles away, my "missile" hadn't started to lose height when it impacted. The smash was so powerful, it destroyed both vehicles, hardly leaving a trace of either.

Q: How do you "stack" up against Wonder Woman, assuming she existed?

A: Interesting question. If you're asking who's more powerful, Wonder Woman as portrayed on TV and in comics or me, then there's no debate. I'm stronger, faster and, unlike her, as good as totally invulnerable. The only thing she's got that I haven't is that nifty lasso of truth thing, but I've got my own pretty effective ways of getting a man to tell me what I want to know. Oh, and I can't change clothes just by spinning around (although I can undress and dress again just as quickly using superspeed).

All that said, I get the feeling that this question isn't just about superpowers, however. For the record, I "stack" up magnificently against any other woman real or imagined. I am physically perfect, after all. Yes, I'm very large indeed but it's not just about size, is it? It's shape, firmness, separation and so forth. I've never, ever, encountered a heterosexual male (or homosexual female) who hasn't been completely enrapt by my glorious body. Wonder Woman? Ha! I'm the best stacked woman of all time.

Q: Have you ever wished you could meet a man who was as strong and invulnerable as you, or even stronger? A man you could be rough with, without turning him into finely ground hamburger? A man who could completely satisfy your sexual urges and still be ready for more?

A: Yes, of course. I dream of having a man like that every single time a normal male fails to please me or breaks in my tender embrace. Every time a guy passes out from exhaustion just as I'm beginning to get going. Every time a man's teeth are ripped bloodily from his gums as he tries to suckle my breast. Every time my hips crush a would-be lover's pelvis to paste...

My ideal man would be almost completely invulnerable and strong. Really, really awesomely strong. So strong that his strength couldn't be measured in conventional terms. He might even be as much as half as strong as me. That would be perfect; he'd be powerful enough to please me, and resilient enough not to be destroyed by my gentle caresses, but I'd still be completely in charge. I wouldn't enjoy being with a man any stronger than that. Fortunately, there's no danger of it ever happening!

OK, that's all for today. There's a few questions I've not answered yet, so I'll address them next time.

Thursday 3 February 2005 17:46 GMT

Q: If you were to go public how would you start?

A: I think if I was ever to go public, I'd do it properly. That's to say somewhere really, really public. And I'd do something that would make sure everyone could see just how special I am. Maybe I'd pick up a bus and throw it through the side of the White House (from the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue). Or maybe I'd stand in the middle of the Alexanderplatz in Berlin and clear it of people by blowing and turning very slowly on the spot. Or I could just pick a fight with a tank somewhere where there's plenty of news media around...

Q: You're walking down the street and come across a building on fire. It's a raging, five alarm blaze. The immediate area around the building is deserted. With your senses, you can hear the sound of a crying child inside. Any possible aid is minutes away. Do you go in and save the kid? Or do you simply and callously keep walking?

A: If I had nothing better to do I might walk through the fire and pull the kid out. I'd expect the parents to reward me in cash. (And I'd make sure they paid too.) Then I'd go back in, sit down in the flames and wait for the firefighters. When they arrived, I'd show off, putting out the flames with my breath. After that I'd tear their protective clothes off and show them something really hot (me).

Q: You gave us a glimpse of your covert life working for your "employer". This job had an individual as the target; have you ever been employed to target an installation such as a military base or research facility?

A: Yes, I have attacked a secret laboratory complex. I'm sworn to secrecy (and might want more work from the same source in the future.) All I can say about it is the following: 1) Twenty men with machine guns are no more of a challenge to me than one man with a pistol. 2) Diamond-cutting lasers pinpointed on my nipples are a big turn-on. 3) Weapons-grade plutonium tastes foul but doesn't harm me even if I eat a kilo of it.

Q: I love hearing about you using your super-tongue or breasts to injure and humiliate men. Can you tell us more about that?

A: I've got a better idea, fan boy. Why don't you come round to my apartment and I'll give you a demonstration? Would you prefer me to hurt you with my breasts before killing you with my tongue or to hurt you with my tongue before killing you with my breasts? Your call.

Q: Is there anything, anything I can do to make you love me?

A: In your dreams.

Well, that's it for the questions. Next time, I'll fill you in on some of what I've been up to throughout the past week.

Friday 4 February 2005 17:07 GMT

Answering everyone's questions was fun, but I've got a life to lead too. I haven't been sitting at home all week, watching my inbox. I've been out and about, enjoying myself.

Last weekend, for example, I took a short trip to the coast. I didn't bother with a hotel, I just stayed out under the stars on the beach (despite the freezing weather and biting wind.) I went for a drink on Saturday night and, as usual, found myself the centre of male attention. I chose the two best-looking admirers, and suggested that we take a walk by the sea. Of course they both agreed immediately.

As soon as we were out of sight of the town, I pushed them both down onto the pebbles, tore off their clothes and then removed my own. I rode one whilst holding the other down with a couple of fingers pressed on his chest and then jumped onto the other. After a couple of rounds of that, they were both out cold. In the dark, only I could see just how badly I'd bruised them.

I dragged their comatose forms up the beach by grabbing each with one hand under his armpit, leaving them far enough in land not to be drowned by the incoming tide. I covered them with what was left of their shredded clothes and left them to it.

Tuesday morning, I opened the door to the postman without bothering to dress first, grabbed him by the collar and threw him across my appartment onto the sofa. Then I dived on top of him, ripped his trousers off and smothered his face between my pendulous breasts for a few moments before sliding down his body and slipping his engorged member inside me.

I rode him for a while, but stopped before he got seriously hurt because he wasn't doing much for me. I got off him, lifted him up by his chin and carried him to the door, dropping him on the floor outside. I went back in and worked my frustrations out by punching and squeezing my empty refrigerator until I'd reduced the whole thing to the size of a football.

I left the round lump of compressed metal in the kitchen and went out to look for some trouble. I won't bore you with the details, but the result was a policeman being carried off in an ambulance while I watched at a discreet distance. At least that cheered me up a little.

Tomorrow, I'm going down to the park with my ball of solid metal. I wonder if anyone will want to join in with my kick-around?

Sunday 6 February 2005 22:15 GMT

Sometimes, the simplest pleasures are the best. Like a good, old fashioned kick-about in the park. Especially when the ball is made out of a compacted fridge.

Saturday morning. I put on a nice, tight, sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts and went over the road with my "football" tucked under my arm. Kicking off my shoes, I started to do keep-ups with my one hundred and fifty-pound (sixty-five kilo) ball. I bounced the sphere off my bare feet, knees and thighs and then off my head. It made a nice Clank! each time it hit my body.

I obviously caught the eyes of quite a few passing guys. A couple who fancied themselves as footballers approached although they seemed to be paying more attention to my figure than my ball skills. One of them gave me a sign that he wanted me to pass him the ball. I controlled it with my instep and flicked it gently towards him. It hit his chest, knocking him backwards off his feet. I jogged over, stepping over his prostrate form and collected the ball.

Using nothing but my toes, I lifted the ultra-heavy ball into the air, letting it fall onto the top of my skull. Of course, the ball was only metal and my head is an awful lot tougher, so the thing bounced just like a real, air-filled football (although with a noise like a nine-pound hammer hitting a thick steel rail). I bent my head back, and when my metal sphere descended, I cracked my forehead forwards into it.

My header was both powerful and accurate. The ball travelled like a rocket straight down towards one of my spectators' feet. He fell in a heap screaming, both his ankles clearly broken. Running over to him, I picked up my ball and, laughing, I said "I guess you're not quite in my league!" For effect, I spun the sphere on my fingertip like a basketball player. Then I tucked it back under my arm, turned around and strolled for home, leaving my former audience to call for medical aid.

Monday 7 February 2005 19:40 GMT

Another day, another broken limb. Men just can't help getting injured while I'm around!

I was taking a quiet stroll down the street, minding my own business, when a acne-ridden young man (barely out of adolescence) approached me. He had a clipboard in his hand and, as he spoke, his eyes ping-ponged between the sheet of paper clipped to it and the upper half of my torso. "Can I take a moment of your time to ask you a few questions?" he started.

"No. You can't." I said, flatly, not breaking my stride for a second. I didn't need to look round to hear him jogging after me.

"If you take part in our survey," he panted behind me, "your name will be entered in our prize draw for a new car."

"Go away before I hurt you." I warned, over my shoulder. He didn't.

"Please. I just want to find out your opinions on sex before marriage."

"My opinion is that it's highly unlikely for you."

"That's not very nice." he sounded genuinely upset.

"Neither is this." I said. Without slowing my walk for even a nanosecond, I reached for his upper arm and squeezed it briefly. I did it very quickly and very gently (only enough to crunch a couple of bones to powder). The way he screamed made everyone else on the street stop what they were doing. A couple of do-gooders came running over to his aid. I just carried on with my walk and left them to it.

Tuesday 8 February 2005 17:44 GMT

The police came round this morning. They were on a door-to-door inquiry, trying to find a witness to an act of mass vandalism that took place overnight.

They seemed to be completely at a loss. At some point between 1 and 5 am, someone had made their way along both sides of the street, tampering with the exhaust-pipe of every single parked car (53 of them in all). The young officer at my door told me that all the exhausts had been crushed completely closed. As he said, to haul a machine capable of exerting the required force up and down the road and apply its crusher that many times must have taken several hours and made one hell of a noise. "So it's just not possible" he explained, "that no-one saw or heard anything."

I just shrugged my shoulders (a gesture which immediately caught his attention, his eyes growing wide as my chest briefly rose and fell). His gaze never flickered after that, even as I closed the door on him.

The funny thing is, as you probably guessed, I could have told him exactly what had happened. It wasn't a crushing machine. No-one hauled anything up and down the road. And it took one minute, not several hours. I just jogged along the pavement, swooping down behind each car and grabbing its exhaust in one hand. A gentle squeeze of my palm each time was more than enough to bend the steel to such an extent that the pipes became completely blocked.

The scene this morning as fifty people came down from their homes and found that their rides wouldn't start was hilarious. They were talking to each other, banging their cars and scratching their heads. Half the street must've been late for work today!

Wednesday 9 February 2005 18:13 GMT

I was in town today, sorting out a little business deal (I won't bore you with the details) but it meant walking through the semi-deserted streets of the financial district during office-hours.

Taking a short-cut through a tiny alley between two imposing glass-fronted buildings, my superhuman ears detected a hushed conversation taking place somewhere above me. I looked up to see a couple of men in overalls standing in one of those make-shift external open-elevator-type affairs that window-cleaners use. It was stationed outside the fifth-floor windows. The soft-talking pair weren't actually cleaning at that moment; they were leaning over the side of their mini-platform, staring at me.

They pretended not to notice me looking their way and continued their conversation, obviously completely unaware that I could hear every word. "Shit, I'd love to really feel those tits" one of them said. "You'd have to wait till I was finished first" the other replied.

I checked up and down the street. There was no-one else in sight. I figured the temporary balcony was no more than fifty feet up, so, when I bent my knees, preparing to spring up to join my admirers, I made sure that I didn't over do it. There was no need to leap onto the roof of the building a further ten floors up. Just an easy bounce of my heels, perfectly judged as ever, carried me sailing gracefully until my feet were level with the two men's heads. My ascent slowed and reversed as gravity took over and I landed, immaculately, on my feet right between the startled pair. I didn't even need to bend my knees to absorb the shock of the landing.

Whilst the window-cleaners stood with their mouths hanging open and their eyes bulging, I did nothing to calm them by quickly pulling off my T-shirt. Not a bra wearer, I was naked above the waist in an instant. Neither man moved but one of them started gasping as his pupils focussed on my exposed chest. The other started to tremble. Smiling proudly at the reactions I had induced, I said "So, you boys would like to feel my tits. Guess what? It's your lucky day!"

I stretched out my arms, putting a hand behind each of their heads and then pulled them rapidly towards me. Of course, even if they hadn't been too surprised to try and mount any resistance, it wouldn't have made any difference. I heard the two, distinct crunching sounds as each of their noses slammed into (and broke against) my shapely breasts. I had a splattering of red on each side of my chest as I removed my hands and let the two men fall unconscious at my feet, their faces covered in blood.

Bending down, I effortlessly tore off a section of one of the cleaners' overalls and used it to wipe most of the mess off me before putting my T-shirt back on. A quick glance down at the street showed that the coast was clear, so I leapt off the platform. Falling five floors didn't hurt me, but I couldn't help crushing a couple of paving stones to dust beneath me (and putting a dozen cracks in the surrounding pavement).

I'll bet I was already relaxing at home before anyone noticed those two guys.

Thursday 10 February 2005 22:43 GMT

It was another wet February day today, but a little cold wind and rain normally suits me when I go out as it means less people are around.

Today, however, was different. It had been raining for a couple of hours, and some fairly large puddles had formed. I just happened to be walking close to one of them when a passing cyclist, not looking where he was going because he was staring at me, rode straight through it. His front wheel kicked up a spray of water which soaked the bottom half of my jeans.

Needless to say, I wasn't having any of that. I shot out my left arm, just in time to grab the rear wheel of the bike. My grip was enough to bend the bike's frame and burst the tyre beneath it whilst stopping the entire vehicle dead in its tracks. Its rider's momentum carried him over his suddenly stationary handlebars to crash down on the wet road about five yards in front of me.

Keeping my hold on the bicycle and dragging it with me, I strolled over to the fallen cyclist and bent over him. Clearly shaken, he glanced up at me with confused, if still lustful, eyes. I sneered at him, stood up tall and with a sweep of my hand, launched his vehicle into the air until it was so distant even I had trouble seeing it. It must've come back down to earth at least ten miles from where I threw it.

"Next time you splash me," I told the prostrate and now bike-less rider, "I'll throw you and not the bike." Then I flicked him with the toe of my left shoe, not hard but just forcefully enough to send him rolling twenty yards down the road.

After that, I dried my jeans in a second with a couple of wafts of warm superbreath and carried on with my walk.

Friday 11 February 2005 16:16 GMT

A new health club has opened round the corner from me. I went in this morning to check it out wearing my normal "fitness" outfit (a ridiculously tight sleevless T-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts).

I'd been on the treadmill for about three minutes, pretending to excersize when a man in a suit approached me, told he he was the manager and offered me an exclusive private tour of the executive area.

He lead me through a locked door marked "Gold Members Only" into another room filled with equipment. I closed the door, pushed him up against it and with a single hand, tore through his belt and trousers, letting them fall around his ankles. With my other hand, I ripped his shirt off. He was the perfect height and ready for me already, so all I had to do was strip and guide myself onto him where he stood.

When I was done, I let his rapidly deflating member slide out of me. Moments later, his entire body slid down the door to collapse in front of it. I had to pick him up with a hand under his armpit and toss him over my shoulder to the other side of the room in order to open the door when I was ready to leave. I may have overdone it a little (something definitely went Crunch! when he crash-landed on top of a rowing machine) but he hadn't been all that great anyway, so he deserved it as far as I'm concerned.

Monday 14 February 2005 17:10 GMT

I'm no great believer in politics, but that doesn't stop me hanging around with political people. Sometimes it's the most influential and powerful of people (yeah, plenty of people may be powerful on paper, but I'm powerful in person). Sometimes, it's people right at the bottom of the political ladder. Or should that be the political rope...

It was Saturday night, and I was in town. Something caught my eye in the distance and I used my super-vision to zoom in. I saw two men, standing in a pitch-black alley about half-a-mile away. One of them was holding what looked like a crossbow. The other appeared to have a rolled-up carpet strapped to his back. They were both looking up at the side of a building. Naturally curious, I ran towards them, keeping my speed down to avoid attracting any attention myself.

As I neared, I saw what was going on. The cross-bow-thing had been used to fire a grappling hook on top the roof of the five-storey edifice. The one with the rolled-up object was tugging the end of a rope that was attached to the hook. He was about to climb up the side of the building. I overheard (from fifty yards, above the noise of the traffic between me and the men) the other ask him "Are you sure you've got the poster the right way up?"

"Yeah. I'm not making that mistake again." was the reply from the urban mountaineer as he began his tortuous, hand-over-hand ascent. He was so slow that I stopped running and walked calmly around to the other side of the building. I bent my legs and sprung upwards, passing five sets of windows and landing silently with the slightest flexing of my knees, on the roof some fifty feet up.

I walked across to the other side of the flat roof where I saw the business end of the grappling rope hooked around the lip of the top of the building. Leaning over the side (Vertigo? Like I need to be scared of a fifty-foot fall!) I saw that the climber had managed to get about a third of the way up. I bent low and grabbed hold of the taught rope with my left hand. And then I gave it a little tug.

That easy movement jerked the man holding the rope upwards so violently that he screamed and lost his grip. By then, however, my tug had leant him the vertical momentum necessary to shoot him skywards like a slow rocket. I stuck out my arm and caught him by his belt as he passed me. I held him like that, his feet dangling over the side of the building for a minute, while his screams died down. Even then, he continued to thrash about, begging me to put him down.

I resisted the temptation to oblige his pleas by releasing my grip and letting him fall to the pavement far below. Instead I held him in place as I reached my free hand behind him to tear the straps holding the giant rolled-up poster. Having freed it, I held it by one end, letting it partly unfurl. I got the gist of the slogan my new friend had been hoping to plaster over the facia beneath us. As I didn't agree with what it said, I rolled it back up, tightly, and launched it, javelin-style into the cold city sky.

Twenty seconds passed before, thanks to my super-hearing, I detected the sound of the banner splashing down in the river a mile away. Turning back to the man dangling at the end of my arm, I teased him a little by tossing him gently a few feet above my head, making him think he was about to fall to a gory end. He was still screaming when I caught him again. Even after I'd repeated the same trick five or six times, he was no less terrified.

Laughing, I put him down on the roof, gathered up the entire length of his climbing rope and wrapped it around his legs. I secured the bundle with a triple knot and left it where it was. "Have fun working out how you're going to get down!" I told him, with a wink before jumping off the building. Fifty-feet below, I landed, my legs buried up to my ankles in broken paving. Stepping out of the new hole, I went home without bothering to inform the ground-based half of the duo of his colleague's predicament.

Tuesday 15 February 2005 16:56 GMT

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, the so-called day for lovers. I made sure that I respected that beautiful tradition (yeah, right!) by spending the evening with some lovers.

Of course, they were all lovers of other women when I encountered them. I picked up all four of them in the alley behind the train station. Over the course of an hour, I helped myself every time a man walked past carrying a big bouquet of flowers or an oversized box of chocolates and no-one else was around. I grabbed them, tore off their clothes and shoved them down on the ground.

Using my unique charms to ensure they were erect enough, I rode each of them till they were exhausted and bruised. Then, still sitting on top of each one, I ate the gifts he had been carrying. That included the flowers and the cardboard packaging for the chocolates. (My body just deals with anything I put in it, absorbing every molecule internally.)

When I was done, I let each of my Valentines go home to their lovers, empty-handed and empty-testicled. So romantic!

Wednesday 16 February 2005 17:39 GMT

There's a famous expression that goes "With great power comes great responsibility". I can only assume it only applies to political power, because with great physical power comes the ability to do whatever you want to whomever you want whenever you want. Like with my valentinos the other night. I did what I fancied, regardless of their wishes.

So, this morning when I was leaning against a three-story scaffold on the High Road and one of the workers called down from above "Oi! You can't stand there, love", I wasn't having any of it. I grabbed hold of the nearest vertical pole and lifted it. I felt the resistance, but ignored it as I stretched my arm over my head. That caused one side of the entire structure to rise about two feet. It creaked loudly as the network of temporary platforms tilted wildly to one side.

The fellow who had shouted at me had to grab on to a railing to keep his feet. His eyes grew huge with shock and fear as he looked down at me and then filled with amazement as he realised what I was doing with my single, slender arm. When I was sure I had his complete attention, I let go of the pole in my hand.

Gravity took over and the side of the scaffolding that I had lifted came crashing down hard on the ground again. A couple of boards came loose and smashed down onto the pavement by my feet and a large metal clamp fell from the top of the structure and bounced noisily off my head on its way down. I don't know if it was damaged by the strain I placed it under when I hoisted the scaffolding, or by hitting my harder-than-steel skull, but either way, it was badly damaged.

I looked up at the man who had yelled at me, raised my eyebrow at him but didn't move otherwise. He stared back for a second before cautiously backing away, out of sight. He'd obviously learnt that no-one tells me where I can or can't stand!

Thursday 17 February 2005 17:35 GMT

I got a knock on the door last night. Before I even opened up, I recognised the breathing of my new neighbour (the guy who thought he could get me a job in the music business). To be honest, even if I hadn't heard him breathing (as if he'd somehow discovered a way to become the only silent "normal" human on the planet), I'd still have recognised him by his smell.

Not wanting him to keep returning and trying again and again all night, I opened up. "What do you want?" I demanded.

"Um... we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot." he begun. He handed me a bottle of wine. "I just wanted to give you this as a gesture of friendship."

I took the unopened bottle and brought it up to my mouth. With a single bite, I cut the top off it, my teeth slicing effortlessly through the glass. I swallowed the jagged top, cork and all and then brought the rest of the bottle to my lips. Of course, the shards of glass didn't cut me. I just tilted the thing back and drank it all down in three big gulps.

The guy stared at me in amazement. Smiling back, I proceeded to eat the empty bottle, bite by bite, crunching the thick glass to powder as I chewed and then swallowing it all down. In no time at all, there was nothing left of his gift. "You'll have to do a lot better than that." I told him, closing the door on him.

He stayed where he was for a few moments, no doubt in shock, before slowly making his way back downstairs.

Friday 18 February 2005 16:59 GMT

It was another wet day today. Everyone seemed to be at work or staying at home, as if they were afraid that a falling rain-drop might damage their fragile bodies. Anyway, the park was deserted when I went for my walk this morning.

Out of sheer boredom, I knocked a couple of huge old trees over by leaning on their trunks with one hand. It's amazing how far a five-foot diameter tree can bend before cracks appear in its bark. Then they creak and there's a rush of little snapping sounds as the wood within begins to break fibre by fibre.

It's the same every time. I just keep resting my pretty hand on the trunk, letting my slender arm easily overpower the so-called might of the tree, the resistance of a century old oak meaningless when compared to a casual application of my strength. With a loud tear, the bulk of the trunk just gives way, and the tree comes crashing down on to the ground.

Today, after I'd felled three of them, I took off my shoes and kicked the four-foot high stumps. You have to hand it to nature. The roots did their job, remaining fast and holding the stumps in place. My foot just smashed through the thick, solid wood each time, sending millions of splinters flying out of the far side where my toes emerged.

I strolled up to one of the fallen trees and bent low, getting my arms around its base. It was too big for my hands to meet on the far side, so I had to hug it tight to grip it. That caused a sizeable area of the bottom of the tree to be crushed to sawdust against my chest. Nonetheless, I was able to get the thing upright again as I stood up straight, carrying the unbalanced weight with (frankly) utter ease.

I rammed the broken trunk downwards hard into the ground, re-planting the tree to a depth of about six feet. It looked good with its lower branches just a few inches from the grass, so I repeated the trick twice more, picking up the two other trees I'd broken and shoving them back into the lawn.

I left my landscaping efforts at that, and, brushing the wood and bark splinters from my T-shirt, I put on my shoes and went home. I wonder if the local paper will blame aliens again...

Monday 21 February 2005 15:52 GMT

How many big, "strong" men does it take to change a light-bulb? Don't worry, boys, it's not a riddle. I'll give you the answer: Three men and two ambulances. Of course, that's only when I'm on the scene...

The bulb in question was in a street-light only about twenty yards from my bedroom window. It wasn't working all weekend. Apparently, some kids smashed it with a extraordinary lucky throw of a stone on Friday night. “Extraordinarily lucky", because the light is twenty-feet above the street, not very large and made of toughened glass.

The truth of course was that I broke the lamp by opening the window and spitting at it. I got it first time and, without wanting to brag, a little ball of my spit (when fired off with the kind of power that's normal for me) is a lot more powerful than any rifle-bullet. The way the street-lamp exploded was proof enough of that.

Anyway, they finally got around to fixing it today. They brought one of those lorries with a "cherry-picker". A man stands in the little box and a pair of huge hydraulic arms lift him and the box up to the lamp. Unfortunately, the first man to go up this morning was thrown from the tiny balcony by a freak gust of wind. That's what he told the ambulance crew, who told him he was lucky to be alive (he landed in the branches of a tree on the other side of the road).

Naturally, there was no freak gust. Just a very gentle little puff of my breath, perfectly aimed to throw him at the tree. The hardest part of it was not blowing too strongly (although it wasn't that hard).

The next guy to go up changed the bulb and cover only for it to "inexplicably" explode the second he'd finished and turned his back. Another little blob of spit was all it took. The man in the basket got a few little pieces of glass in his face when my spittle hit, requiring another ambulance.

A third man finally got the job done. That's to say, I decided to let the third man get the job done. But only because I had better things to do by then.

Tuesday 22 February 2005 22:14 GMT

Regular readers will know me as an easy-going, friendly, tolerant girl but some days I'm just not in the mood for all that and it's a case of no more Miss Nice Girl. Like today.

It started early this morning when I bumped into the music-business guy downstairs on my way out of the flat. He was fumbling around, looking in his pockets for something, standing right in front of the door. I couldn't believe he expected me to wait for him before I could leave! I just reached up with one hand and brushed his shoulder, sending him flying into the wall ten feet away which he hit without any part of his body touching the ground. I didn't wait to see him slide down to the carpet.

Out on the street, a young man wearing trendy clothes and i-Pod headphones roller-skated past me, showing off by spinning on one leg as he approached. The tiniest flick of my foot against the heel of his skate was enough to shoot him helplessly (and face-first) into a lamppost fifteen yards down the pavement. He hit it like a rocket and bounced off, nose all flattened and bloodied, to collapse in a heap.

Later, crossing the street behind a van parked at traffic lights, I made a little extra room for myself by swinging my hip with my stride, knocking it into the back of the vehicle hard enough to push it two yards forward and make some man inside yell in pain. I probably caused a whiplash injury or something like that. Men are just so fragile.

It didn't end there. This afternoon, I got approached by some bearded jerk asking me to sign a petition. He handed me his pen before I'd even said whether I was interested in his cause. I placed my hand over his and squeezed gently, using only enough force to crush the biro that was still in his grasp. Of course, that meant I had to break nearly every bone in his hand in the process, making him instantly pass out (I guess the agony was too much for him, but I don't really know enough about "pain" to offer an expert opinion).

Hurting four guys with such total ease improved my mood quite a bit, but it still didn't restore my usual cheerful disposition. Even causing two cyclists to crash into each other by blowing a gentle kiss at one of them didn't make me feel happy. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel brighter. If not, I'll just have to cause some proper damage and see if that does the trick.

Wednesday 23 February 2005 17:28 GMT

I was in a much better mood today, and I think it showed. Sure, I did probably hospitalise a guy, but that was more for fun than anything else. And he was asking for it.

He was sitting in a parked car as I walked down my road. I mean, it's one thing when men let their gazes linger on me for a few seconds, but it's another altogether when they just stare. At my chest. Blatantly.

I sashayed up to the front of the parked Ford and bent forwards to look my unwanted admirer in the eye. Of course, that caused an even greater amount of my evidently irresistible cleavage to be visible and I actually saw the idiot starting to drool. He never stopped looking at my breasts, even for a second, so I couldn't catch his gaze.

Instead, I got his attention by drawing back my foot and giving the underneath of the front of his car a nice, easy kick. My toes hit with an almighty Clank! and the whole vehicle was tossed into the air, flipping over like a pancake before it crashed back down on it's roof. The windows shattered and I could smell blood, but I didn't hang about to inspect the damage I'd done. Besides, it was only a man.

Thursday 24 February 2005 17:34 GMT

I've decided to make up for my recent bad temper by entering into the community spirit and helping my city with its Olympic bid.

With that in mind, I'll be demonstrating my take on various events that might feature in the games, starting today with the javelin, Blogger-style.

Walking up to a lampost, I grip it around the base with my right hand, taking care not to crush the delicate thick steel in my gentle grasp. An effortless tug tears the entire post free of its moorings. Sparks fly out and shattered concrete is sprayed in all directions. Some chunks bounce off my body, but I barely notice.

I bend my arm, causing the twenty-foot-long javelin to turn through 90 degrees. Then, not bothering with a run-up I just launch the thing by straightening out my arm and letting go of it. There's a boom as the pole accelerates through the sound barrier, but it's instantly out of sight for any normal person watching.

My throw is much more powerful, of course, then a force as weak as Earth's gravityso the javelin never enters the curve of its arc as it flies through the planet's atmosphere and out into space...

Friday 25 February 2005 17:54 GMT

Good evening sports fans!

I've been thinking about Olympic Weightlifting... and how to make it an activity I'd be interested in competing in.

Of course, no weight that any man could ever move would ever challenge either of my little fingers or one of my toes. In fact, I can move dozens of times the current record just by sighing. But with a few changes, I think I might actually be able to give my strength a proper test.

How about this: All the weightlifting competitors and all their weights are on a podium. Let's say it's in the main stadium. And all the other competitors for the games are also present. Plus, it's sold out and there are one hundred thousand spectators packed in.

The stadium is constructed on top of a special twenty-foot deep, solid iron foundation. To really stretch my abilities, I have to tunnel underneath the foundation (with my bare hands, so it might take up to thirty seconds for me to reach a point directly beneath the centre of the giant slab of metal on which sits the full stadium).

Then, I lift the whole thing. I'm allowed to use two hands and, as I stretch out my shapely arms, the massive sports complex groans. It rises slowly. I keep lifting, slowly and steadily, until my elbows are straight and I'm supporting the incalculable weight of a tenth of a million people and a gigantic building (not to mention an enormous iron monolith).

Standing straight, with the entire Olympic Games balanced overhead on my feminine palms, I'd thrust out my perfect chest defiantly and smile, just to show how I'm not struggling to hold the stadium up.

Then, I'd slowly remove one of my two hands, taking the mind-boggling weight on a single arm, whilst my free hand rests, casually, on my hip. For a laugh, I'd raise and lower my "weight" quickly several times, throwing every single one of the hundred thousand spectators out of their seats.

Finally, I'd jump down into a pre-prepared hole by my feet, letting go of the stadium, so it would crash down, shaking everyone and everything up again.

I think all that would be worth a gold medal, don't you?

Monday 28 February 2005 17:25 GMT

The marathon. "The ultimate test of human stamina and endurance." Not my words, obviously. Sometimes, it seems like picking up a small piece of paper is a test of human stamina and endurance. Normal people are just so… pathetic.

I mean, 20-odd miles? I can spit further than that! And it takes the best athletes over 2 hours to do it, and then they're almost dead when they finish. I'd jog ten times that distance in less time, just to pass a few spare moments. And as for endurance, well, I can honestly say I have never been tired in my life. Fed up and bored, of course. But not tired.

I mean, I've swum across the Pacific Ocean (mostly underwater) in a night, and walked out of the brine on the other side feeling as fresh as when I started. If I ran at top speed, I'd complete a marathon in a couple of minutes. I wouldn't slow from my initial pace at all, even if I went on to do the course another thirty times. Of course, anything (or anyone) that got in my way would be destroyed without trace, but only because I'd probably choose not to go around it (or him…)

To make it a test for me, we'd need to change things considerably. Here's an idea: I run the marathon, carrying a bag over my shoulder. In the bag is a really delicate cargo; ideally something that can't withstand much speed or movement. Say, ten large men. If one of them gets damaged (broken or dislocated limb, loss of consciousness due to severe bruising, whatever) then I'm disqualified. That way, I have to keep my speed way, way down, and be extremely careful not to let the bag bounce about too much.

I'd still run the race in a fraction of the current record, and no doubt, would probably get myself disqualified intentionally in the last few yards, just for the fun of hurting the contents of the bag…