I’m not sure I like superheroes. They look larger than life. They dress in clothes that make them larger than life. They act larger than life, which is a good indicator of clinical narcissism, and I should know. I’m Doctor Strange, Master of Black Magic and there are few people as narcissistic as I am. When the Fantastic Four came to my mystic domain; my Sanctum Sanctorum, I had a feeling there was a bull in the china shop, but I thought it would be the big rocky guy and not the young brother and of Susan Storm. He came into my “castle” with a Yoo Hoo. That Yoo Hoo, by the way, ended up all over the pages of the Darkhold, the most evil book in existence. If Shuma Gorath shows up with a chocolate milk mustache, I’ll never forgive that boy. So of course, when the X-Men showed up and I didn’t know what to expect, I was a little guarded. They were great, though. They were polite, respectful, genuinely humble, and they weren’t at all what I expected from superheroes. The b...

Monday 2:15pm Hi. There are two things I want the world to know. The first- I am bonkers for that girl Gwen Stacey. We live near each other and I’ve known her since I was a kid. The second thing I want the world to know is that I’m a huge coward and I won’t tell her, and I certainly won’t tell the world. Besides, I think she’s got the hots for my best friend. My name is Harry Osborn. The three of us went on a school field trip and were all bit by the same radioactive spider. We each spent a day in bed and throwing up. Peter’s Aunt May gave us all a care package filled with delicious treats that promised to stay in our stomachs. That Aunt May is a real peach. And boy that Pete has it all. So we all got better and then we realized that the spider bites had given us radioactive super-powers. We’re all a lot stronger, we have a special spider-sense that tells us when we’re in danger, and we can climb walls. Unreal, isn’t it?! Well look out, here comes the Spider-Friends...

I don’t care. This is dumb anyway. Charlie’s band of happy mutant minions made a mess of things and I’m a prisoner in his mansion, again! He gave me this paper to write on and he gave me this piece of charcoal to write with. It ain’t no pencil though. He knows better than to give me anything sharp. Why am I writing this? Nobody’s going to read it. He seems to think that locking me up in a room without sedating me and without chaining me up is something he should be rewarded for. I’m still in a locked room. I’m still a prisoner to that stuck up no good step-brother of mine. OK, so I’m writing for me. Writing my own rehabilitation. He was holding me captive. In this house. Knocked out cold, chained to a slab, and any time I woke up… another dose of that elephant tranquilizer. But I broke out, didn’t I? I got out. That’s when I met Brock Rumlow, aka Crossbones. He turned me on to the Factor Three. We met with them. Three guys, always in hoods, always in the shadows. And ...