Look, it's not easy being a god.
Sure, I can do whatever I want, and who's going to stop me? I'm the only god in this universe. But the consequences, oh my Me, the consequences.
My godliness emerged at the onset of puberty. I suppose that a young tantrum throwing child god wouldn't be a good idea. The universe must have some sense then, but there again it let me be god. So maybe it's not that smart after all.
My first, well miracle I suppose you'd call it, took place just after an end of term maths test. I had answered that the value of PI was 3.0. That evening, worried about the test, I looked up the correct answer. Oh boy was my maths teacher going to take the rip out of me. He'd warned us and warned us that PI was always in the test so we'd better know it off by heart. I thought I did. And I was wrong.
I so wished that PI really was 3.0. And it was.
And the universe stopped, everyone died. And I'll tell you that that was a total bugger for an eleven year old. I sat ... err ... stood ... err existed with all of the component parts of matter whizzing round me as reality fell apart. And it was my fault.
How the fuck do you restart a universe? Everyone was gone, dead, and it was all my fault. I nearly cried. Mum, Dad, even my little sister who was a terminal pain in the arse, gone, dead. OK, I cried.
I wished I'd never changed PI, and I hadn't.
Now this might get a little confusing, just try to bear with me. Remember time is something a god created for you, not gods like me. I remembered what I'd done and how it had been done and precisely what had happened to space, time, energy and matter. Forget the Higgs-Boson particle. It exists but there are a lot of weirder things than that.
On Monday Mr. O'Patrick, my maths teacher (we called him The Terrorist, well he terrorised me anyway), had me stood in front of the class while he explained to the class in great detail what sort of idiot would ignore all of his warnings about something as simple as PI.
Now I wished that I'd changed my answer not the universal constant.
"Well done Paul," The Terrorist turned to the class, "Paul was the only one who really listened to my warnings and hints and he memorised PI to twenty decimal places."
Now, why hadn't I thought of doing that in the first place?
I don't have to be slapped in the face with a wet fish to know that something really weird had just happened. And I'd made it happen.
What and why were my next two thoughts. And I knew, immediately and fully. I was a god (little 'g'), not THE God. But just the god of this reality. Omnipotent and omnipresent, the universe was putty in my immature fingers.
The omnipresent bit was great.
Look I was an eleven year old boy what do you expect I did?
The girls showers were the same as the boys, only it was filled with girls. Naked girls. Girls without any clothes on. Wet and soapy naked girls.
I came in my pants as soon as I saw Helen McCleavy slide her soapy hand between her legs. Panting, with wet trousers and soaked in sweat I dropped to my seat.
Sarah Whithenshore saw the wet patch on the front of my trousers and laughed. Pointing to the evidence she shouted out "Paul's wet himself." And laughed louder.
Ignoring The Terrorist's demands for calm and quiet, the class all tried to see my humiliation for themselves.
I made myself not having come, uncome? I tell you, trying to describe my life is difficult. Things happen and then I have to unhappen them. The syntax and tense of this record is going to get a little messy.
Of course I was furious at Sarah, rich bitch. She felt that she was the top of the school just because her Dad worked in London and they had a large house. I fixed that straight away. Her Dad had now just lost his job as a dustman and her mother was thinking about working as a cleaner, if her arthritis and smokers cough would let her. Their little one bedroom flat (top floor of the local tower block where the lifts never worked) was all they had after a lifetime of working.
Sarah herself would be my personal slave and no one would think it unusual for her to follow me around and pleasure me. I wasn't quite sure what 'pleasure me' actually meant, I had a feeling it had something to do with rubbing my shoulders when I was tired.
I sat and clicked my fingers, a wonderful god like skill, and she came running over and started rubbing my shoulders. It was actually quite nice. The Terrorist continued trying to teach the class.
I have to skip forward now, just so that you can understand some of my problems. The pharmaceutical company that Mr. Whithenshore no longer ran went out of business, Sarah was rubbing my shoulders (and other places once I found out what 'pleasure me' meant) and didn't get any qualifications from school, she didn't go to university and she didn't go to work at her father's company where she would have discovered a new anti-viral drug which became the standard treatment for Aids. As time passed and the events which should have happened didn't, I 'felt' the missing occurrence, it didn't take me long to understand what I had done to the world.
I went back to the 'when' when I changed her life and unchanged it. I did decide that she wouldn't experience sexual satisfaction at all, ever!
Same result, this time because she was frigid she didn't have the boyfriend who helped her revise and understand the university course work, usually while they were in bed after a long fucking session.
I went back again. This time I made her vagina loose, very loose.
I bet you're thinking 'same result' aren't you?
You're right. She was so embarrassed after her first boyfriend said fucking her was like waving a savaloy in the Mersey Tunnel, that she never had another boyfriend.
It took me eighteen goes to get past Sarah Whithenshore laughing at me. In the end I just 'uncame' myself and sat down. I ignored her. I was back to being eleven again and I had lived for over two hundred years.
I still went ogling the girls in their shower room. Helen McCleavy did it for me every time. While I managed to stop ejaculating as soon as her fingers disappeared between her legs, I just loved watching that girl. While 'I' was over two hundred years old my body was just eleven. And boys at that age are just hormone time bombs waiting to go off.
I should mention one thing here, growing up is great. It's a wonderful experience. ONCE! Twice is sort of OK. The third time is boring, after that forget it.
One thing that happened every time was Helen McCleavy's death. She was killed by a hit and run driver two weeks into the summer holiday. Previously I had been so wrapped up in Sarah that I just mourned Helen for a few days and then got on with my life. This time though I had spent more time watching Helen and I decided to do something about the driver. It was ridiculously easy, just to get a bird to fly close to the drivers windscreen; that frightened him so he slowed down and Helen was on the other pavement when he passed her. Job done. Sometimes it's nice being a god, you can do good for people.
Who's thinking 'mistake'? You're right.
The driver, not having this fright to stop him continued drink driving and killed himself and a family of five later that year. He didn't live to marry and the eldest child of the family he killed couldn't join the marines and save the life of the father of a world class Politician. Helen herself grew up to have two children who always seemed a little 'disconnected' from reality.
So with tears in my eyes I watched Helen start to cross the road, turn to wave to her friends and then be thrown fifty feet from the impact of the speeding car. I raced to her and stared into her lifeless eyes until a concerned adult moved me to the side, because children shouldn't see this sort of thing.
Helen added five trips back for me.
My twelfth birthday took fourteen tries. I was deep into puberty by then, and a dozen naked dancing girls didn't seem too much. Not really. The knock on effects from that led to my first nuking.
I might be a god, omnipotent and omnipresent and all that, but I was also a young boy. And young boys aren't universally renowned for their innate intelligence. I missed things, but the government didn't. They got scared of something they couldn't understand or control. But a thirty kiloton nuclear weapon they could understand and control. They set it off as an air burst five thousand feet above my home town. Everyone except me died.
Do you have any idea how much being nuked stings? It fucking does.
I killed the people who'd made the decision to nuke me. Within three minutes over a thousand missiles were heading for my home. I went back and didn't have the dancing girls. My parents were concerned that I didn't seem to be enjoying myself. I smiled at them and told them I was fine.
By now you're probably wondering why, if I'm a god like I claim, I cannot just change the event that cause the problem and then jump forward to the 'when' where I was. Well that when now no longer exists, I have to go forward the hard way to the new when that replaced it.
Angie Smith let me put my hand on her breasts!
That first touch was so wonderful I went back three times. Every time was as good as the first.
Nipples! WOW! They grow so much, and so hard. The taste and feeling on my lips - it's incredible. Angie's firm high breasts, those pale nipples, I was a god in his heaven. Then she put her hand on my dick. I didn't come straight away, I had learnt a little self control. Then she squeezed and I came immediately. I hadn't learnt that much control. She giggled as she ran her fingers through my hair.
"Next time, make sure you have a wank before we go out; you'll last a bit longer." said the twelve year old sex therapist.
We did go out again and I had three wanks. I was almost too sore to enjoy her touch. But I thrilled in touching her.
We only went out four times, then she moved on to Jeff Harcott, a shy boy in our class. I realised then that Angie loved the fumblings of an inexperienced boy, she wanted to teach us, to be our first, to take our cherry. Well that was OK by me. I watched over Angie for the rest of her life, she continued to educate young boys. Though, in the panic years of 2000 to 2015, she became much more discrete and she also ensured that her pupils understood the risks of indiscretion.
I didn't try to 'help' Angie and she didn't cost me any trips back. Did I learn a lesson then? Have a guess. No I didn't, not until much, much later did I learn that lesson.
Now that I was older (twelve years one month and six days) and experienced (I had touched a real female between her legs) and had seduced a woman (Angie) I decided that a more experienced woman would be my next conquest.
Jennifer's laugh rolled all the way down the school corridor. everyone stopped to witness my humiliation. So I was justified in making her clothes disintegrate wasn't I. Everyone seeing her run screaming and naked to the girls toilets was a fitting punishment in my eyes.
But that was the cusp point of World War 3. The chain of events was long but very well defined, and I knew it was my fault. I unasked Jennifer, she didn't laugh at me and nuclear holocaust was averted. That cost one return but it was a long one, nearly eighty years.
Every time I grew up I became a stock market trader, a fairly good one, not spectacular but good. I made a good living. The day Gordon Brown was assassinated I could have made a killing (deliberate pun) but I kept it down to 1.5 million euro. My wife and I had a couple of good holidays that year. She always congratulated me on my choice of location and dates as the weather was always good. I never changed the weather, not after the Christmas holidays before my thirteenth birthday.