June 1st, 2000
I have come to terms with the fact that I am a toon.
This acceptance happens sometime between the eighth "me" arguing with the ninth "me" about map orientation and the thirteenth "me" eating the map.
We're on a break.
By we, I mean me, myself, I, and thirteen additional identical copies of myself, all animated, all equally confident, and all equally wrong about geography.
We're sitting around a map.
A real one. Paper. Folded. Slightly on fire at the edges.
In the center, circled in red marker, is my original spawn point:
Sahara Desert.
Far, far away—after several aggressively inaccurate lines and arrows—is a scribble labeled:
Alaska (???)
I point at it."So… we overshot."
One of me squints at the map upside down."Only by a little."
Another me taps France with a finger."I want a croissant."
Instant consensus.
Croissants win over logic every time.
The Great Toon Migration (Disorganized Edition)
We do not discuss routes.We do not discuss distance.We do not discuss tectonic plates, oceans, or international borders.
We mine.
Fourteen drills appear out of nowhere. Some are pedal-powered. One is steam-powered. One is powered by a hamster wearing a tiny helmet.
We point vaguely that way—toward France, probably—and start drilling.
Immediately, chaos.
Three of me take a left turn and end up back in the Sahara.
One of me drills straight up, pops out in the Arctic, waves, and drills back down.
Two of me somehow loop and pass each other mid-tunnel, arguing about who copied who.
One of me finds oil, becomes briefly rich, then rejoins out of boredom.
Toon logic carries us not by accuracy, but by intent.
And intent says: France has food.
Arrival (Unfortunately Correct)
Against all odds, we make it.
All of us.
France.
Specifically—
The sewers.
The smell hits first.
All fourteen noses curl up at the exact same angle.
There is a moment of shared silence.
Then, without discussion, we all put on hazmat suits.
Full-body. Bright yellow. Oversized visors. Radiation symbols plastered everywhere like this is ground zero of some post-apocalyptic wasteland.
One of me holds up a Geiger counter. It clicks aggressively.
Another me nods."Yep. Irradiated."
It is not irradiated.It is just France's sewer system.
Still. Precautions matter.
We regroup under a flickering light, standing ankle-deep in things I refuse to think about, and look at each other.
Fourteen identical toons in hazmat gear.
"Alright," I say. "Merge time."
We step forward.
There is a fwump sound, a visual ripple, and suddenly I'm one again. Whole. Singular. Slightly taller. Slightly more confident. Definitely hungry.
Paperwork Makes the World Real
If I'm going to exist here—really exist—I need something grounding.
A name.
An identity.
Something from my past life.
I reach into hammerspace and pull out a clipboard.
Then a printer.
Then a laminator.
Then an ID card slides out, warm and freshly made.
Name: JustinPhoto: Me — current formAn animated, anthropomorphic pig-wolf hybrid in a hazmat suit, smiling confidently like this is all perfectly normal.
I nod.
"Yeah. That's me."
The card feels right. Anchored. Familiar. Like the past life clicking into the present.
Justin it is.
Surface World
I find a manhole.
I push it open and climb out of the sewers of France, emerging into daylight like a radioactive cartoon apocalypse survivor.
People stop.
They stare.
Their brains try to process it.
An animated pig-wolf in a hazmat suit. Moving. Breathing. Existing.
Most of them don't scream.
They don't point.
They hesitate.
Then—almost universally—they look away.
Phones come out, then go back into pockets.
A woman rubs her eyes hard and mutters something in French about needing more sleep.
A man nods once, very firmly, as if deciding something important, and walks in the opposite direction.
Because the alternative—that this is real—is worse.
So they choose the safer option:
I must be hallucinating.
I keep walking.
The city hums around me, utterly normal, utterly unaware that a toon has just climbed out of its underbelly.
I grin inside my hazmat helmet.
"Alright, France," I mutter. "Justin's here."
And somewhere, very far away, a camera is probably recording exactly what I look like.
But for now?
The world pretends I don't exist.
And honestly?
That works for me.