So, you guys, I think you know that I like Pokemon.
Several years ago I would have probably admitted this only through torture, but I find that the longer you play Pokemon, the less likelihood you will be embarrased by it, a phenomenon that can be expressed in the following graph:
My flagrant love for Pokemon (which I once heard described as Darwin meets cockfighting) was only exacerbated by a recent Facebook trend-thing. Apparently in December, all of the cool kids change their profile pictures to Pokemon. Brittney suggested that we have a battle, on Facebook, with our Pokemon profile pictures, but I was slow to the punch, and Brittney changed her picture back to a human face before I could initiate a fight.
I wouldn’t be surprised if her boyfriend, Damien, labels me as a bad influence.
What follows is a work of art that Mozart would have shed tears over.
When I am old, a grandmother on her death bed with her grandchildren crowding around with reverent tears spilling down their washed face, they will ask me with trembling voices, “But Grandmother, what was it all for? What did you achieve in life?”
And I, with a feebly shaking finger, will point to a framed picture on the wall, with a series of Facebook wall posts beneath the shining glass.
My grandchildren will nod solemnly, and I will die a completed woman.