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I am here for the simple expedient that I need to document my temporary lapse into childhood idiocy, i.e. I nicely asked to borrow my brother's Nintendo DS and spent my evening getting reacquainted with Pokemon (sapphire version, in case anyone was wondering). I was wandering around on route 124 via Swampert's Surf when I decided to go check out my Pokemon collection in Lanette's PC! It turns out I have 111 Pokemon (I think that's quite pathetic D: ) and my brother (who is only organised when it comes to things like this) very kindly organised my pokemon collection into boxes by type. It is inordinately amusing that I have a box, therefore, called eggs, because of the many eggs my Pokemon have apparently laid in the breeding centre and which I have never been bothered to try hatching D: obvs I have No! Maternal! Instincts!
What pleases me is that I can still defeat the Elite Four and the Champion in less that twenty minutes with two Pokemon alone (well, they are level 76 and 82 respectively, but still.) Why am I such a little kid ;_; I am possibly the only person I know who still plays Pokemon at this age. But oh, Kyogre, how I have missed you <3
...also, it turns out that with great insensitivity I named one of my Pokemon UGLY, once. And Pokemon don't get rename tokens alsdfjalskdalsdkfj. Oh well, the folly of youth.
now off to angst about my tremendous unproductivity (because of Pokemon and the presence of Malaysian relatives whose national pastimes are eating and shopping, in that order) and MY UNDONE CHINESE WORKSHEETS and my feminist speech which ends with a combination of BURN THE BRAS!!1! and that Mary Poppins suffragette song. -crosses fingers- please don't let Mrs Lee throw me out of class tomorrow.
What pleases me is that I can still defeat the Elite Four and the Champion in less that twenty minutes with two Pokemon alone (well, they are level 76 and 82 respectively, but still.) Why am I such a little kid ;_; I am possibly the only person I know who still plays Pokemon at this age. But oh, Kyogre, how I have missed you <3
...also, it turns out that with great insensitivity I named one of my Pokemon UGLY, once. And Pokemon don't get rename tokens alsdfjalskdalsdkfj. Oh well, the folly of youth.
now off to angst about my tremendous unproductivity (because of Pokemon and the presence of Malaysian relatives whose national pastimes are eating and shopping, in that order) and MY UNDONE CHINESE WORKSHEETS and my feminist speech which ends with a combination of BURN THE BRAS!!1! and that Mary Poppins suffragette song. -crosses fingers- please don't let Mrs Lee throw me out of class tomorrow.
because she always comments and is really sweet <3: a drabble-thing, theme of given prompt lullaby. I'm sorry it's so crappy!
lullaby;
Gakuto calls Oshitari at 11.38 p.m. and asks if he will meet him at the telephone box at the corner.
Oshitari is typically calm under all circumstances because there is *nothing he has never been able to deal with eventually, but at this time of the night he is slightly on edge, maybe because it is late and he has been watching yakuza flicks again (if Gokusen constitutes that, which it actually might not), and maybe because this is Gakuto, incendiary and unabashed and unfortunately with a size that supports neither trait.
He grabs three plasters and a coat off the rack and slams the door behind him; nearly falls headlong down the stairs in his haste and swears loudly. The fuck! echoes around the stairwell, uck-uck-uck trailing off faintly, and Oshitari thinks wryly that maybe it expresses his sentiments exactly when he steps into something unidentifiable and squashy on the third flight down.
At this time of the night the neighbourhood looks like an excerpt from a yakuza flick set: window panes patterned with grime, streetlamps with their oily yellow lights that cast flickering shadows that could be trees, could be silhouettes (but are probably just figments of Oshitari’s imagination)
Gakuto is leaning against the telephone booth further up ahead, briefly illuminated in the glare of a passing car’s headlights; a thin stream of smoke issues from between his fingers to twine a grey halo above his head. When he sees Oshitari he drops the cigarette and casually grinds it under his heel.
Oshitari doesn’t know if he’s relieved to see that the images he was conjuring up (Gakuto slumped on the ground in a pitiful huddle of grey coat, hair spilled strikingly like blood on the pavement, telephone dangling uselessly, its cord wrapped around Gakuto’s wrist) remain entirely imaginary, or annoyed that Gakuto has interrupted his Thursday night movie ritual.
Say something, Yuushi! Gakuto looks up at him and grins brightly, teeth white in the dark.
Oshitari cannot help but be suspicious. What for?
Gakuto holds up a tape recorder. Been having insomnia, and you know I hate drinking warm milk, and I remember always falling asleep when you tried to read me sections of that romance novel crap.
Oshitari clutches his chest in mock-hurt. You wound me, my love.
Yeah, see how effective you are? I’m already falling asleep on my feet here. Gakuto yawns exaggeratedly and blinks sleepily at Oshitari, who cannot help but laugh and drag Gakuto in the direction of home.
*excepting Atobe and his preuccupation with purple, frills, and insistence on the prominent featuring of whipped cream at team parties.
lullaby;
Gakuto calls Oshitari at 11.38 p.m. and asks if he will meet him at the telephone box at the corner.
Oshitari is typically calm under all circumstances because there is *nothing he has never been able to deal with eventually, but at this time of the night he is slightly on edge, maybe because it is late and he has been watching yakuza flicks again (if Gokusen constitutes that, which it actually might not), and maybe because this is Gakuto, incendiary and unabashed and unfortunately with a size that supports neither trait.
He grabs three plasters and a coat off the rack and slams the door behind him; nearly falls headlong down the stairs in his haste and swears loudly. The fuck! echoes around the stairwell, uck-uck-uck trailing off faintly, and Oshitari thinks wryly that maybe it expresses his sentiments exactly when he steps into something unidentifiable and squashy on the third flight down.
At this time of the night the neighbourhood looks like an excerpt from a yakuza flick set: window panes patterned with grime, streetlamps with their oily yellow lights that cast flickering shadows that could be trees, could be silhouettes (but are probably just figments of Oshitari’s imagination)
Gakuto is leaning against the telephone booth further up ahead, briefly illuminated in the glare of a passing car’s headlights; a thin stream of smoke issues from between his fingers to twine a grey halo above his head. When he sees Oshitari he drops the cigarette and casually grinds it under his heel.
Oshitari doesn’t know if he’s relieved to see that the images he was conjuring up (Gakuto slumped on the ground in a pitiful huddle of grey coat, hair spilled strikingly like blood on the pavement, telephone dangling uselessly, its cord wrapped around Gakuto’s wrist) remain entirely imaginary, or annoyed that Gakuto has interrupted his Thursday night movie ritual.
***
Say something, Yuushi! Gakuto looks up at him and grins brightly, teeth white in the dark.
Oshitari cannot help but be suspicious. What for?
Gakuto holds up a tape recorder. Been having insomnia, and you know I hate drinking warm milk, and I remember always falling asleep when you tried to read me sections of that romance novel crap.
Oshitari clutches his chest in mock-hurt. You wound me, my love.
Yeah, see how effective you are? I’m already falling asleep on my feet here. Gakuto yawns exaggeratedly and blinks sleepily at Oshitari, who cannot help but laugh and drag Gakuto in the direction of home.
*excepting Atobe and his preuccupation with purple, frills, and insistence on the prominent featuring of whipped cream at team parties.
Current Mood: 
panicky desu~
panicky desu~10 comments | Leave a comment