Thor on the couch

Never had it crossed Thor's mind that it would come to this: a quiet existence on a sagging, soggy couch, a three-day-old burrito for breakfast, those congratulatory letters piling up beside her, bullshit, every single one of them. There had been no award. She concocted that story as a joke, figuring her buddies would know better, would laugh or roll their eyes or make that pshaw noise she found so fake. Pshaw. Who says that? Pshaw to the woman on the couch, sweaty, smelling, something questionable oozing from somewhere unknown. So wet. Pshaw, the Nobel Peace Prize? Pshaw all over you idiots! Thor realized she'd befriended a band of morons and then she realized something worse, that those idiots who loved her would leave her when they found out about her lie. Pshaw. Thor was the moron. So she retired to the couch with a bottle of Sailor Jerry and her burrito, and she got up to get the mail, and she lay there as the phone rang, again and again, wondering how long it would take until she was more ooze than woman, wondering when her trophy would finally arrive.