"im not doin' this again." i told my friends, pushing a camera away from my face with one hand, swiping with the other, an attempt to bring the bristles of my hair dye (brush) down my hair.
they cluttered, pleading with their hands
"please [m/n]! we'll do anythin'!! even stop lookin' at ya mom's!"
i scoffed, bringing my hand to connect with the back of his (my best friend) head.
" ¡no me moléstese!" don't piss me off. "i told you gatos to stop tryna make play at ma' dukes!"
he laughed at me, running in the opposite direction. he slid onto my couch, sighing, and dragging his breathing into a groan. he inhaled and spoke to life,
"what color you doin' this time, kia?"
i smiled, smudging more bleach into the strands of my probably damaged hair.
"rubio."
he gasped, high-pitched and riddled with shock.
"blonde?!"
i laughed into my glove, accidentally inhaling the fumes— "¡oye!" —an exclamation of shock or excitement— i blinked rapidly and shook my head, violently thrashing whatever particles remained of my seso.
he was so shocked, probably even fell off the couch. he even started choking. probably swallowed his spit too fast and got arrestado (busted— usually a form of slang used in puerto rican territory and (with the right connotations) is the equivalent to, "yo mane! ole' boy up the block got caught (lackin, up the block" (and for my non ethic folk) means "gerold! ms. esquire, the lady downethal the sidewalk was just arrested for vehicular manslaughter!!"
he was caught off guard.
i finally found my breath and shouted back,
"yea, blon—scch, bendito!" —i hissed out the latin phrase. dropping the brush to slam away a sharp pain in my arm.
I peeled away my hand, looking underneath to see the crushed corpse of a neon red spider with black outlines and a intricate white masked head.
it fell to my sink and fizzled, burning into the porcelain a stained ash speckle. "what the—"
—alight! alight! i'll do the damn interview! you didn't have to go all por loca on me!"
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" ¡vamos! ¡vamos! alright!! let's do this one last time....."
"i am [m/n] kirari [l/n]. better known as [sp/n]. and for the past two years I have been new yorks one—AND ONLY— spider-man."
"i was bitten by a radioactive spider containing— blah, blah, blah, x,y,z drugs that mixed with the — here and there— of the drugs in the bleach i was using to dye my hair."
"it gave me muy caliente powers."
"it's simple really; my body produces a enlarged amounts of flammable gas in the way of my circulatory system. every breath i take, my spit produces flint and steel that i can choose to ignite. if i do then my body will begin to heat up as i choose. bio-thermo manipulation.
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the rest is pretty self-explanatory:
i saved the city. not once, twice, or even thrice. three hundred sixty five times.
i fell for my best friend..
i saved the city again.
my parents divorced.
my friend rejected me
he was straight
i saved the city again.
i applied to the best high-school in new york
i got in
i smoked weed for the first time i saved the city.
again. again.
again.
again.
and........
again.
and despite the fanatic city-saving, making a statement as 'the first publicly out spider-man.' running into a dying star, almost dying—twice, each time more painful than the last, losing my father, and being diagnosed with bipolar disorder...
