A/N: This is the revised and edited version of the original Dear Diary. I am a decidedly chronic sufferer of "don't edit beyond grammar before I post" syndrome, and honestly, 90% of the original was written at about 3 AM, whilst hyped up on sleep deprivation and chocolate and extremely stressed over exams. The other 10% was churned out so that this didn't sit idle on my hard drive. How is that relevant, you may ask? Because after Farla tore it to shreds, I went back and actually read the stuff I'd written, and never in my life have I been more ashamed of something I've produced.

Dear Diary, Version 1, can be taken as so politically incorrect and borderline tauntingly homophobic that it makes me cringe. Anyone who knows me at all knows that I'm so anti-prejudice it's not funny, so for me to have written something so stereotypical and badbadbad is shameful. I don't even… anyway. I mean, I wanted to be a human rights lawyer before I decided to chase music instead. A human rights lawyer, and then I write something like that. *shudder*

So, I have to thank Farla, because I never would have re-read the thing otherwise (contrary to anything I may have said about editing), and it would have sat there forever on my account, mocking me and what I stand for.

Please, when you finish reading this, go and read the original. And if you finish reading it and wonder what could possibly be wrong with it, you need to have a bit of a think about how much you are bowing to stereotypes and mass media, and take a moment to consider why it could be so offensive. I'm leaving it up as a lesson for myself and for my readers, because it's something well worth considering.

(Farla's review is for the original, obviously. I disagree with her on some points, but certainly not this one.)

Naranne

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise.

Dear Diary

by Naranne

Misty

Dear Diary,

Today was fucking weird.

I know, for such an angry girl I don't usually swear that much but it was. It was, quite possibly, the strangest day of my life so far – and that's saying something, y'know. I have seen magic and I have lived with Pokémon all my life, I've seen my sisters (on their periods) at their very worst and I have travelled with Ash Ketchum, and really, you would think that last one pretty much tops anything else, given all the stuff the group of us have seen and done.

But, no.

Apparently, today decided to trounce it all.

Well, it started out innocently enough, I guess – how cliché a phrase, I know. …Whatever. Ash and Brock had come to visit the Gym – they visit more and more often these days, now that they've finished travelling around Sinnoh. Dawn had stayed behind, this time, which might have made me a little disheartened; her and I are pretty good friends, after Ash and Brock had introduced us. It's nice having another girl around who is not a total loony like my three beloved sisters, and is not completely head over heels for the "love of her life" like May. Drew this, Drew that – Mew, she's only a teenager. Does she not realise this?

… I'm not jealous. I'm so not jealous I am like the anti-jealous. It's not my fault Ash is so dense.

Okay, I'm getting really off-topic. So! Back to why today wins the medal of most absurd day of my life thus far, love Misty.

Like I said, normal day at the Gym.

I cleaned the tanks, fed the Pokémon, did a little paperwork, dull, dull, dull, yadda, yadda, yadda. We'd just sat down to lunch – Brock's cooking is still godly, thank-you for asking – when lo and behold, out of nowhere booms dramatic theme music and two rather pitiful attempts at evil cackles. Quite honestly, they sounded more like the giggles of over-excited schoolchildren. At this point, of course, after years and years of listening to the same sort of thing, such drama no longer has much of an effect on Brock, Ash, Pikachu and me. And so, we continued to eat peacefully, chatting amongst ourselves and ignoring the increasingly drama-queen-esque fury of the music and voices behind us.

I distinctly remember rolling my eyes at Ash across the table, to which he had stifled a laugh of his own behind the hand that was not busy wielding his eating utensil. To my right, Brock had giggled in a totally undignified manner. Pikachu just ignored the entire affair and slurped enthusiastically at the ketchup bottle, which only made us laugh harder.

And then.

It happened.

I'm sorry, I couldn't resist.

Me? Melodrama? Never.

I solemnly swear that I am not in any way elaborating or making any of this up, for the very next thing we all heard was:

Can't read my, can't read my,

No he can't read my Poker face—

James's warbling voice had rung out, enthusiastic if woefully out of tune, and we three had sat frozen in complete and utter shock. I remember thinking that I was dreaming, and that this could not be happening, but in the next heartbeat, I heard Jessie snap: "Idiot! Not that one until later", followed shortly by Meowth's characteristic, mischievously snide laugh, which for once I was grateful to hear.

"Prepare for trouble!"

At least that had been normal.

"And make it doubl—Jessie, this is boring. You promised—"

There had been the sound of a resounding smack – Brock and Ash had almost winced in sympathy; I had rolled my eyes – and James's yelp, but then Jessie had agreed and relented, and I felt complete shock and trepidation roll over me.

I remember thinking, Holy shit, no, they aren't actually going to, are they?

I feel morally obliged to point out here that any familiarity with the following music is due only to my sisters, and that I have not, at any point in time, sought it out for my own… enjoyment. Thank-you.

And this is where my day took an irreversible turn for the completely bizarre.

It seems that my body's terror response does not respond to renditions of Poker Face by Team Rocket, for I would have thought that the sensible thing to do at this point in time would be to run for the fucking hills. However, maybe I was frozen in place with laughter by the complete stunned-mullet look on Ash's face, or by the way Brock didn't seem too stunned, or maybe I am just a curious, morbid masochist.

The thought had crossed my mind that they must have bought some hell big speakers, because the music was really, really, damned LOUD. Not even my sisters had ever played it that loud. I am ashamed to admit that I recognised the song, but for the life of me, I still couldn't tell you why I didn't do the sensible thing and find a nice big pair of shears to cut their cord, or even find, you know, the plug.

For some reason, defying all logic, I turned around.

Just in time, apparently, for both Jessie and James to have opened their big, fat mouths and belt out:

We live a cute life, soundfematic,

Pants tighter than plastic,

Honey but we got no money

We do the dance right,

We have got it made like ice-cream with honey,

But we got no money

I remember the pair had their arms clamped firmly around each other's waists, and microphones held in a vice grip in the other, projecting their song to what I was sure was all of Cerulean City. Meowth was behind what looked like a crude imitation of a DJ's equipment – if he had known how to effectively utilise all of the switches and nobs and dials he had at his disposal, admittedly, I would've been impressed.

Needless to say, Meowth was hardly the star this time, and I would have sunk a little lower in my chair out of shame on behalf of the Gym at that point, I think, had I not been completely blindsided by what the hell Team Rocket was wearing.

Jessie hadn't been wearing pants, for one.

She'd had fishnet stockings on, a black leotard, and knee high black leather boots. It had been her jacket, though, that had been stunning, on her part: like her shoes, it was leather, and it was belted around the waist, done up with a large buckle. It looked like an oversized biker jacket, and it sat just above her hips, leaving not much at all to the imagination – that wouldn't have been so weird, I guess. Except that there were SHOES on it. Bright red and spunky, one heel was resting on each shoulder; the one on the right upside down so that the stiletto point was sticking into the air, and the other was upright. Two more were hanging from the front of the jacket.

And as if that hadn't been bad enough…

I mean, sure, we've all seen James in a dress before. We've even seen him with fake breasts. True, we haven't seen the combination of the two, but you'd assume that having seen the two separately and not being two horrified, the combined effect wouldn't be that bad. This is, of course, assuming that he was wearing a normal dress.

This dress, my friends, was anything but. It was covered in what looked like sequins, or gems, or, hell, I don't know. Something that had an alarming amount of sparkle to it. What's more, the dress was rigid, yet flaring out at the back and shorter in the front, and it was surrounded by dozens and dozens of what once upon a time might have been hula-hoops. They looked a little too fragile for that, I suppose, but the dress was definitely circled by … hoops. Sparkly, light purple hoops, to match the iridescent shade that was the remainder of the creation.

I'm not even sure I want to describe his shoes.

For a start, they were even sparklier than the dress. It was like someone in the costume department of Twilight had gone overboard with Edward's sad, wimpy, sparkly skin, intensifying the sparkle effect by something like two thousand per cent. Then they'd skinned him, dyed the Edward-skin purple, and turned it into shoes. In the process, it had gone from the skin of a wimp to the skin of a killer pair of shoes, because I swear those things were lethal. If only because the person wearing them was extremely likely to trip and break their neck.

It was a little scary how at ease James looked in the entire outfit.

From there, I can safely say the entire day descended into chaos.

I don't think I have the heart to go into it.

I need a drink.

And some death metal, I think.

Misty.

James

Dear Diary,

Today was glorious.

Jessie is amazing for letting this go ahead.

I think I'm in love.

Hugs and kisses,

James.

Brock

Dear Diary,

I have long held the suspicion that James is not completely straight. The guy is a walking, talking stereotype. He's a little bit camp, little bit that sassy gay friend, he wears fake boobs, heels and dresses. How he manages the heels I'll never know. But I guess it was a guy that invented the things, after all.

However, I know he's not gay – goes to show how much stereotypes actually count for, right? – because I somehow managed to walk in on he and Jessie— and, well. Let us just say that today has been a day full of things I never thought I would see and that I hope never, ever to see again.

Although, in retrospect, I'm not sure how none of us saw the performance coming.

I'm not a hater, and I'm not a fan, but after having witnessed it, it now seems perfectly logical for Team Rocket to take their hilarious costume capers one step further and imitate the Queen of outrageous fashion herself, Lady Gaga.

I still think I should be more shocked about today's events.

Misty covers that quota nicely, though – and Ash, too, I suppose, although Misty's outrage was a whole lot more funny to witness than Ash's, "So what just happened?" kind of look that had been permanently affixed to his face, for, oh, the rest of the day. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised at their reactions – Ash is still a kid, Misty is… Misty…

I don't think, though, that either of them have ever considered the possibly that James might swing both ways. Maybe the media has truly brainwashed me. I'm sure Misty's sisters would sympathise.

We've all become well acquainted with Misty-outrage over the years, and by now I'm fairly sure that when she's angry, shocked, or in the grip of any other strong emotion, all she can really think about is what got her there, so it's pretty safe to say thinking about James's sexuality didn't even occur to her.

It worries me a little that at fifteen, Ash is still one of the most naïve people I have ever met. Short of two people of the same gender having it on in front of him, I don't think it would occur to him that people do that sort of thing. Actually, I'm not entirely sure he's had The Talk yet. Oh, I am so not even going there.

Dammit, I am completely heterosexual and absolutely the only reason I'm even thinking about another male this way (writing about it, whatever) is because James appeared on stage in his biggest, most flamboyantly camp outfit to date, and then I caught him pinned up against the wall by his female co-worker. Co-worker? Partner? Partner in attempted crime? I've got several younger brothers and sisters and two pseudo younger siblings, mulling over the ins and outs of their lives is what I do – it's just a rotten shame it somehow applies to Team Rocket, as well. I can't turn it off. Make it go away.

I hate stereotypes.

Actually, you know what: instead, I am going to focus on the fact that today James managed to get some and my dry spell is getting really, really long.

Dammit.

Today has been way, way, too much.

Brock.

P.S. Misty needs to keep her diary somewhere better hidden. I wasn't looking for it intentionally, I swear, but I consider it my duty as the pseudo older brother figure of the group to make sure I know what's going on in my little friends' lives.

That's a good excuse as any, I think.

But you know what? She still fancies Ash! (She likes death metal, too, didn't know that.) I thought she would have been over him by now; surely some hunk has dropped by the Gym to sweep her off her feet? I mean, it's not like she isn't attractive. She constantly (subconsciously, I think) compares herself to her sisters, but it's a different kind of gorgeous, and—

…

Oh shit.

Misty's coming, and she looks angry.

Fuck.

Jessie

Dear diary,

Actually, no, wait, scratch that. This is not a diary, this is a journal – a place where a mature adult such as myself can write down the events of her day. I'm not (never have been, never will be) the kind of girl who keeps a diary. It carries such horrible connotations, that word. I'll leave the diary-keeping to little brats like the red-head twerp. No, this is definitely a journal.

It's just such a shame that "dear journal" doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

I have a love for being concise, so I'll sum up today rather neatly:

— Gaga performance went off without a hitch. The shocked expressions on the twerps' faces were most amusing.

— We didn't capture Pikachu, but James managed to get the Pokémon's owner rather spectacularly between the legs with one of his heels. Entirely accidental. Don't think he can repeat it. (Unfortunately.)

— Still waiting for a (somewhat inevitable) lawsuit from America, regarding use of copyrighted outfits. I hope James remembered to get them under a different name than his own, this time.

— Misty's sisters didn't recognise us, and in fact offered to pay for a repeat performance. It's the first time someone has rendered me speechless in a few years.

— Oh, and I've been presented with irrefutable proof that James is definitely not gay, despite what a lot of people seem to think. I will take great joy in rubbing said irrefutable proof into their faces.

Education is so important. No, really. I kid you not, these are the things I learnt today (so help me, I sound like a pre-schooler):

— Glitter goes everywhere, especially when used in extreme amounts to decorate an entire dress.

— Poker Face is deceptively hard to sing. It also has much more of a frightening effect on the twerps than our beloved motto.

— Meowth isn't a bad DJ, in the slightest. And he must never read this, for that compliment alone.

— Continuing in the vein of "skills I didn't know my partners had until today", I am entirely unashamed to admit that James is (very surprisingly, I'm sorry) brilliant in bed. … Not that we were in bed at the time. Which is irrelevant. And it is definitely not burgeoning romantic attachment. It's just sex. Just sex.

Well, then. I'm off to see about that "repeat performance"…

Jessie.

Ash

Dear diary,

I don't even know what to think anymore.

… I'm going to see if I can find another pack of frozen peas. Heels are lethal.

Ash.

A/N: Links to the outfits, and a copy/paste of the original prompt can be found with the original. Go read it. Please?