Missy was an irresistible freckled-faced little 8-year-old girl. People called her Missy because she would always run up to them and ask “Did you miss me?” If you said no, she'd run off, come back in a minute, and ask again, “Do you miss me now?” If you told her that you didn't then she'd say, “Well maybe if I stayed away a few minutes longer then you would.” She would do this for as long as it took until you replied, “Yes Missy, I missed you.”

Next, she would cutely beg, “Do you love me.” And the same thing would happen as before. She'd keep asking and asking until you finally said, “Yes Missy, I miss you and I love you.” But that wouldn't stop her either. After that she'd ask, “I know that you miss me and that you love me, but am I your best friend?”

But even before she could ask me those questions, I fondly replied, “I miss you Missy … I love you Missy ... And you're my best friend Missy.” Then I repeated the same questions to her, “Do you miss me Missy? Do you love me Missy? Are you my best friend Missy? Are you? Are you? Are you? Huh, huh, huh!”

Well, you should have seen and heard her, “Yes, yes, yes, Dum Dum. You're my Superhero. My mommy and daddy told me all about you. You save people. And today you saved me by telling me that you missed me, loved me, and were my best friend even before I asked you. No one's ever done that before. Mostly people think I'm an irritating pest.”