Pokemon, Birthday’s, and the Human Centipede
So, yestadae I turned old. Okay, maybe not quite old, I am still the fresh age of 24. Shoop da whoop!
I mean, I know we always say this, but I remember when I thought (insert younger age:18) was old. But, then again, I also remember when gas was .98 cents a gallon.
Anyway, one of my younger, sprier, coworkers (he’s 22) asked me what I did for my birthday. Aka, if I got sloshed.
Negative, dear friends, negative. I drank two sour apple smirnoff ice, took a couple of shots of apple schnapps and watched the human centipede. Fuck yeah. Ya jelly? (P.S. Why is it that in horror films, that in general the women are utterly and totally fucking incompetent? #those bitches deserved it.)
But, do you know what I wished for when I blew out my 24 candles on my boston creme pie cup cakes? I wished pokemon were real. (Oh yeah, read that one more time: I wished pokemon were real.) I wished pokemon were real with every fiber of my aging body. ’cause you better fucking believe I’d fly my pidgey the fuck out of here and splash attack any sorry bastard in my way to the elite four. And none of that bidoof shit. I’m talking the original pokemon.
Anyway, long story short. I have insomnia right now. I still wish pokemon were real.
Bulbasaur will always be my first. ❤