As a six-year old with a fucked up childhood I’d say I handled myself well in all my previous experiences. No matter the severity or the heightened sense of ridiculousness I somehow managed to come through relatively unscathed. Even if I couldn’t process what was going on I could deal with it. I would just add it to the list of shit I would tell my therapist in twenty years.
Time travel, however is a whole different list of shit.
Continue reading “Chapter 17 – W….T………..F”
The space satellite Fred called a left hand lingered on my face for what seemed like five hundred and thirty-two days as my still developing brain tried to process what had just happened. I could still imagine the site of Queen Briana squirting at me and I was pretty sure King George was all over my face. Panic reigned supreme as the Danish crowd screamed in shock and horror. If you’ve never heard a bunch of Danish people freaking out, imagine the sound produced by a Chinese guy playing the accordion.
It was horrible.
Continue reading “Chapter 15 – Six-year-olds Cannot Drop F-bombs”