The Secret Multiverse I Scribbled in History Class (And Why It Might Actually Work)
Let’s face it: we’ve all daydreamed during a boring lecture. But what if those doodles in your notebook margins weren’t just random nonsense? What if they were the blueprint for a cinematic universe so gloriously unhinged that even Marvel would raise an eyebrow? That’s exactly what happened when I started mapping out a batshit insane multiverse during Mr. Thompson’s 9th-grade algebra class. Here’s the story of how procrastination birthed a chaotic, interconnected world of sentient sandwiches, time-traveling pirates, and a villain named Carburetor Joe.
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Chapter 1: The Birth of Chaos
It began with a simple question: What if the moon was made of cheese, but no one could eat it because it was haunted? From there, my brain spiraled. Algebra equations morphed into character sketches. The periodic table became a map of fictional planets. By the time the bell rang, I’d accidentally created:
– The Sandwich Syndicate: A group of sentient deli foods (led by a vengeful rye bread named Sourdough Steve) fighting for culinary dominance. Their nemesis? A sentient toaster that believes all bread deserves “equality via combustion.”
– Carburetor Joe: A mechanic-turned-supervillain who steals car parts to build a robot army… powered by expired energy drinks. His tragic backstory? A failed Jiffy Lube franchise.
– The Chrono-Pirates: A crew of 18th-century sailors who discover a time-traveling galleon. Their mission? To plunder historical events (e.g., stealing the actual Declaration of Independence or “borrowing” Shakespeare’s quill).
None of this made sense—and that was the point. The rules of this universe were simple: No logic. No limits. Just vibes.
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Chapter 2: The “Lore” (If You Can Call It That)
Every cinematic universe needs connective tissue, right? In mine, the glue was a substance called “Quantum Mayo”—a glowing condiment invented by a rogue scientist (who also happens to be a sentient jar of pickles). Quantum Mayo could do anything: open portals to alternate dimensions, resurrect extinct animals, or turn your cat into a fluent French speaker.
The catch? It only worked if you spread it on something absurd. Toast? No. A rubber chicken? Bingo. This became the MacGuffin tying every storyline together. The Sandwich Syndicate wanted to weaponize it. Carburetor Joe tried to fuel his robots with it. The Chrono-Pirates used it to lubricate their time-ship’s sails.
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Chapter 3: Crossovers No One Asked For (But Everyone Needs)
What’s a multiverse without crossover events? In Math Class: The Movie (working title), the timelines collide when:
– Sourdough Steve accidentally Quantum Mayo’s a portal to the 1700s, unleashing the Chrono-Pirates into a modern-day grocery store.
– Carburetor Joe’s energy-drink robots gain sentience and start a boy band, Circuit Breakers, that becomes a viral sensation. (Their hit single: “Battery Low (But My Heart’s Full)”.)
– The haunted cheese moon gets struck by a comet made of ranch dressing, creating a black hole that threatens to devour all condiments in existence.
The tone? Imagine Mad Max: Fury Road directed by the SpongeBob team after drinking six Red Bulls.
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Chapter 4: Why This Might Actually Work
Crazy as it sounds, there’s method to the madness. Audiences are exhausted by formulaic franchises. My multiverse leans into chaos, but it’s also self-aware. Characters frequently break the fourth wall to complain about plot holes. The Chrono-Pirates argue about paradoxes mid-heist (“If we steal Einstein’s theory of relativity, do we even exist?”). Even the Quantum Mayo has a disclaimer: “May cause existential crises or spontaneous ukulele skills.”
Plus, it’s infinitely expandable. New characters? Add them. Want a rom-com subplot between a sentient waffle and a time-traveling barista? Done. The lack of rules isn’t a bug—it’s the feature.
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Chapter 5: Lessons from a Classroom Daydream
This exercise taught me three things:
1. Constraints breed creativity. Boredom forced me to think outside the box—literally, since I was drawing in a notebook.
2. Embrace the absurd. Not every story needs to be Oscar bait. Sometimes, joy comes from a sentient potato explaining quantum physics.
3. Shared universes are playgrounds, not puzzles. You don’t need a 10-year plan. You just need a spark of “What if?”
Will my multiverse ever become real? Probably not. But the act of creating it—letting my brain run wild—was its own reward. So next time you’re stuck in a dull meeting or class, grab a pen. Your doodles might just be the next big thing… or at least a fun way to kill time until lunch.
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Epilogue: If anyone at Marvel/DC is reading this, I’m available for consult. My rates are reasonable, and I accept payment in gummy worms.
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