Librería Samer Atenea
Librería Aciertas (Toledo)
Kálamo Books
Librería Perelló (Valencia)
Librería Elías (Asturias)
Donde los libros
Librería Kolima (Madrid)
Librería Proteo (Málaga)
So... picture this.I’m Darren, just your average divorced dad, scraping by in a suburban shoebox of a house that smells like burnt coffee and regret. My life’s a bit like a sitcom that got canceled mid-season. Messy, a little sad, but still trying for laughs. Our daughter, Izzy, she’s the star of the show, a pint-sized tornado of sparkles and imagination who makes everything brighter. When she’s around, I’m Dad of the Year, whipping up star-shaped sandwiches and spinning tales about dragons with bad aim. But when she’s off with her mom, Rachel, and her new beau, Greg the Giant-Headed Brain Surgeon, the house gets quiet. Too quiet. Like, 'I’m talking to the Roomba just to hear a voice' quiet.That’s when things got weird. I’m talking capital-W Weird, like 'did I accidentally eat expired yogurt and hallucinate a furry apocalypse' weird. One night, I’m moping in the kitchen, drowning my sorrows in flat beer, when something moves under Izzy’s bed. Not a sock, not a dust bunny, but a full-on, seven-foot-tall, orange-furred, purple-horned, whiskey-drinking monstrosity who calls himself Mr. Bubbles. Yeah, you heard that right. Mr. Bubbles. Sounds like a clown for hire, looks like a Cheetos puff mated with a Care Bear, and talks like he’s auditioning for a buddy comedy with me as the straight man.At first, I’m thinking I’ve finally cracked, that my brain’s checked out and left me with a hallucination who farts nerve gas and photobombs selfies. But Mr. Bubbles isn’t just some figment, he’s real, or real enough, and he’s got a mission. To yank me out of my post-divorce funk with a mix of bad jokes, backyard shenanigans, and therapy sessions that smell suspiciously of Jack and Coke. What follows is a rollercoaster of ridiculousness, think treasure hunts with clues scrawled in monster claw, late-night talks about feelings (ugh), and a kid named Oliver with his own googly-eyed imaginary sidekick. It’s nuts, it’s messy, and it’s the most fun I’ve had since I accidentally set my eyebrows on fire trying to grill. This is the story of how I learned to laugh again, to keep the door cracked for imagination, and to realize that friends, even the ones who look like they escaped a Dr. Seuss fever dream, are always closer than you think, ready to save you with a burp and a grin.
