When I was teeny, I’d wake up on Saturday mornings to find my older brother already parked in front of the TV watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’d pour myself some cereal and sit down next to him, scowling as I chewed my Trix for the duration of the episode. I would have changed the channel if I hadn’t learned my lesson that time I unplugged his Super Nintendo and he tore the heads off of all my Barbies and threw them in the pool. I yearned to watch something with bright colors (ever notice how dark and dreary the colors in the TMNT series are?) and a female character that was slightly less lame than the mom-jean-clad, tragically-permed April. I figured I might just have to wait for the major networks to find out I was a superhero myself so they could make a show about me.