“Strong POKEMON. Weak POKEMON. That is only the selfish perception of people.”—Karen of the Elite Four
1, The Pool
It was like a million degrees out, the world was glowing, and everything looked all wavy in the golden distance. Summer shimmered off the crystal waters of the swimming pool, full of children's urine and chlorine. The clouds above looked like big Jumpluff just drifting along, and the clubhouse cast a long shadow, towering over the poolside like some sort of divine structure, its white exterior dotted with all sorts of nautical imagery, which matched the poolside, itself about two tennis courts wide and paved with cement tiles carved with little Magikarp and Shellder designs. A wooden awning shaded a row of picnic tables littered with coolers and juice boxes and radios and towels and pool toys of all sorts, and the parents who enjoyed the shade watched as their children shot each other with Super Soakers and whacked one another with pool noodles. My parents were hundreds of miles away. There was a kiddie pool off in the corner packed with babies, all buoyantly unaware on account of their gigantic floaties. Red maples swayed green overhead in the sweltering breeze. A lifeguard whistled and shouted as kids ran wild. The felty pops of tennis balls could be heard nearby, alongside the faint melody of an ice cream truck several blocks away, and the giggles of children swinging on a nearby swing set, and the taunting of teenagers playing basketball just beyond that. Palm trees towered overhead, their crazy shadows like Exeggutor on the poolside. And all of this was surrounded by a black metal fence that kids could slip right through, and just about anyone could climb over, with two flimsy gates erected on either side, their latches long broken from years of slamming. And just beyond that, less than a sprint away, was a tranquil fishing pond, and around that were the backsides of houses, one of which was my grandma Susu’s, another was my friend Miles’, constructed of red brick, with these big double doors that opened onto a wooden patio, which you could see from the pool itself, only partially obstructed by all the red maple and palm.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jim Steele.”—The Catcher in the Rye, J.D. Salinger, 1951
YOU’RE ABOUT TO READ THE MOST BRILLIANT ESSAY on The Catcher in the Rye ever written. I wrote it back in 2005. It was my Loxley University Graduate Thesis. It has been considered by many to be the most comprehensive analysis on the themes, symbols, and philosophical implications of J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye ever written. This is not a brag. Many have said this. I am merely stating the facts.
trying to convert my friends to Buddhism so they'll give me all their stuff
polar bears in the zoo sometimes grow algae on their fur, turning them green; they say it's because they're stuck in the wrong place.
the best feature of the Nintendo Switch is one that's rarely talked about: it's basically immune to power outages.
there's no such thing as a normal person, only people who try really hard to appear that way; everyone's a fucking freak underneath the facade.
trying to remove the word “just” from my vocabulary, outside of very specific instances. stuff i’m trying to avoid is, “I'm just saying …” or “I was just …” because these come off as very defensive and unconfident, in a way.
“Greetings, novitiate, and know first a reassurance: I was once like you, asleep, unwise, protonymic.”
On December 31st, 2024, I spent exactly $236.74 all to play literally one game; I spent $161.02 on the Xbox 360 Slim in glossy black, and I spent $39.81 on an authentic Microsoft 360 controller, and I spent $35.91 on the actual game itself, and I even considered buying a mint-condition copy of the game’s official strategy guide, but this would have cost me an additional $41.36, and—considering that was more expensive than the game itself—it was all starting to feel a little excessive at that point, so I had to draw the line somewhere.
i have a real nice water tumbler, it’s black, stainless steel or something, my wife got it for me. water tastes good in that tumbler, and the same water tastes different in a different tumbler, so my tumbler has this special quality, in my mind. i’ve notcied that some people aren’t happy with their tumblers; they want all sorts of stuff, like the next best tumbler, or the next best car, or a bigger house, and a pool in the backyard. why does it seem like some people can only enjoy stuff they haven’t got? why can’t people just enjoy the tumblers they have now?
my favorite pokemon is Togepi on account of all the potential—and the nice triangles
It’s almost like, if you love something, you should leave it alone, set it free.
some bloggers literally be like: “computer, write me the most overwrought fucking bullshit you can think of about my dead grandma. thanks.”
“all morons hate it when you call them a moron.” —Holden Caulfield
when I was young, i felt like everyone was looking at me. now, I feel like no one looks at me ever. I don't know which is worse.
every medical drama when something uplifting happens: analytic piano melody
“Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today.” —Bilbo Baggins, The Hobbit, J. R. R. Tolkien, 1937
I didn't sign up for this. It’s too hard. I’m a hands-on learner. I don't have any experience. I’m too young. College is too expensive. I don’t want to go into debt. Degrees are useless anyway. There’s too many options. I'm dyslexic. I’m not ready. I’ll never get a good job. It’s all nepotism, cronyism, soulless networking. I won’t play the corporate game. I’m better than that. The world isn’t made for people like me. I will not change. I have too many things going on. I’m scared. People are going to laugh at me. There’s not enough time. I’ve got deep childhood trauma. I’m antisocial. I cannot change. I can’t. I just can’t.
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I, Pale Spectre
There I was, a pale spectre, on a bench, on a walkway, on the Atlantic, on a private island, in a gated community to which I belonged but did not belong, waves going up and down like the addys and grass I was coming down on, cool morning breeze blowing right through me, mossy oaks getting sensual, no sleep, teenage brain basically fried, one hand dangling a lit cigarette between two fingers, the other a copy of Breath of Fire III, missing the front-cover insert so the orange disc shone right through, and I could see my reflection there, off the jewel case, through a cloud of smoke: hair wild as the wind, eyes sunken all Night of the Living Dead, expression expressionless.
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VI, The Boy With the Thorn in His Side
Down a two-mile stretch, beyond Cloister and Tide, past terracotta mansions, four stories high, walls infused with seashells, elevators inside, there was a small opening in the holly; and there, between the holly, an alley of hedge, shaded by oak and palm, a long grassy pledge; and there at the end, at the very edge, there was a small hill, which opened to a stunning view: a golden dune, with goldenrod and cordgrass and yucca and buttonwood foon; and right there, on that dune, there was a walkway, all made out of wood, a secret beach, where three young men stood.
