March 14th 2015, Paris, France
To tell you the truth, “Dora the Explorer” was never an accurate depiction of my life. Then again, if it were, it would have garnered a completely different audience. One of the writers was a close friend of mine. But he co-wrote a children’s show, not my personal tale of all that is weird and twisted in this world… and all the other worlds, while we’re at it. That Dora is better off, with her little monkey friend, her talking backpack, and her arch-enemy, a fox. She’s lucky.
I’m not that Dora. The only thing my friend kept from yours truly, the original, was the name and the haircut. I don’t go exploring the corners of this world. I don’t strap on my cool leather boots, I don’t follow a map, and I certainly don’t get to come back with totems and souvenirs from all the marvelous places that I’ve been to.
In fact, I never come back. I’ve been away from my own world for five years now, since it first started. You see, like I said, I don’t travel — not literally. I just fall through the bendy strips of time and space. I bounce from one parallel universe to another, with no control or knowledge of what I’m doing. It’s like slipping through the cracks, desperately trying to hold on to something concrete, yet failing miserably every damn time.
