Dear Diary,

Is it me, or does it feel like I haven't updated you for months?

No, me neither.

Anyway, how do you like scrambled Chansey egg?

That is all I will say on the matter that arose in the last entry.

Well, not really. There's so much to write down in your pages about today, Diary…I must write quickly, lest the vivid images in my head are consigned to drab and dull memory, losing their lustre and diminishing my grand victory against the oppressive force known as 'therapists'. I prefer to call them 'mental Nazis'.

Oohohohoh, Diary! A Nazi comment! It's a good thing this diary isn't governed by Godwin's Law of Nazi Analogies, or this entry – nay, the whole diary – would be over. And such a loss to the world of literature that would be.

No, I am not being sarcastic.

Anyway, yes, the mangled Chansey corpse I promised to tell you about. It – I think it was male, but I refuse to give something so gender-confused a denomination – arrived at roughly 1pm, and I have no shame in telling you that as soon as I laid eyes on that nightmarish, Lovecraftian monstrosity of pink plushiness and overbearing cuteness…well, let's just say I wanted to cut its heart out and sacrifice it to Arceus in an attempt to have them wiped from existence by His divine influence. I also have no shame in telling you that I have nothing against Arceus – indeed, we are quite 'buddy-buddy'. To use the vernacular those monkeys above ground use on the 'streets'; we be homies, dawg.

It arrived, as I said, at 1pm, and against my better judgement – nay, against my will – I let it in. It proceeded to attempt to shake my hand, but those malformed stumps that pass for limbs couldn't quite do it. I ushered it into the part of my cave that served as a study (I wanted to get this over with as fast as Pokémonly possible, you see), gestured for it to sit, and reclined on a leather sofa that I had stolen from Ikea earlier in the morning (thievery goes oh so well when you're telepathic, you see – mental suggestion and mind wipes and all that), and we begun talking over my supposed problems.

Well, it called them "problems", but the words coming out of its mouth was an avalanche of the most insulting things I had ever heard. "Violent," it said. "Obviously mentally unstable and traumatised by past experiences," it burbled. "Need urgent help before I do something I might regret.". "Lack of parent figures the cause.". "Neurotic."

Diary, I have never been so insulted in my life. Let me tackle each of these slanderous statements; putting them down on paper is highly therapeutic, I have heard.

Violent…well, I simply can't disagree with that. But to imply that it is a bad thing? Madness.

(Reader: If you made a Sparta joke then I will hunt you down, rip out your lower intestines, force feed them to you, then melt your brain inside your head while simultaneously breaking every bone in your body. You have been duly warned.)

Obviously mentally unstable? Ohohohoho, I do disagree. If my mind was unstable, then I'd be killing everyone around me with my incredibly powerful psychic abilities!

Wait, shit. I just disproved my own argument.



Anyway, onto the next point.

Traumatised by past experiences…well, do you mean the one where I was CREATED AS A SCIENTIFIC EXPERIMENT or the one where I KILLED THE SCIENTISTS THAT MADE ME AND DESTROYED THE LABORATORY? I'm a tad confused. Please specify.

Need urgent help before I do something I may regret? Oh, on the contrary. I don't do regret.

Lack of parent figures. See 'Traumatised By Past Experiences', example one.

Neurotic. No, Britney Spears is neurotic. I'm just a psychopath. There is a marked difference. I don't know what it is exactly, but there is a difference. Trust me, I'm not Britney. Although I did say "Oops, I did it again," when I dropped a boulder on that Rhydon. But I digress.

After the Stay Puft Pokémon had finished insulting me with its inaccurate diagnoses, I proceeded to argue against his points in a delicate, masterful, and polite manner.

Yes, I did bash its skull in with a rock. Why do you ask? Oh, you didn't? Okay then.

Anyway, I bashed its skull in with a rock until it stopped twitching. It's a good thing there's no law enforcement down here; this was far from the perfect murder, what with all the evidence and screaming and horrible wet bone-crunching noises. Oh, and the copious amounts of blood. And if you're thinking, "But Mewtwo, you didn't care about leaving evidence when you committed genocide against the Electrodes!", then you are an idiot. That was a massacre, this was murder. The key difference is, with a massacre, there's no witnesses left behind. With a murder, there are potential witnesses. Like that Ditto that walked in when I was disposing of the body via my cooker.

Well, I say 'walked'…it kinda…jiggled its way in. Like some animé tentacle rape monster's little abominable offspring.

Getting back to the matter at hand, it saw me stuffing the corpse into my cooker. It squeaked in shock and made to escape, before I levitated it off the ground, and decided that this would be a brilliant opportunity for me to test out my recently-stolen blender. I always wanted to know what a Ditto smoothie would taste like.

On reflection, it tasted like frappéd piss mixed with Snorlax droppings, and had the consistency of slimy chewing gum. It also clogged up my blender something awful, let me tell you. I had to bleach it Arceus knows how many times to get it out.

After I had…disposed of the body (where 'disposed', read 'had for late lunch' – the eggs are a delicacy, you know, full of kindness and good spirit. I could almost hear children crying when I ate them) and the witness, I strolled happily over to the nearest Chansey and informed them that, by some tragic cruel twist of fate, my counsellor had tripped and fell in my open oven, destroying the body beyond all recognition and beyond all means of forensic testing.

Take that, Horatio, you sunglasses-sporting git. CSI my arse.

It took this news with much grief – I believe it was a relative of my ex-counsellor – and left to spread the news. As I went back to my lair, I could just about hear the painful screams of sadness as the tragic accident was relayed to the others.

Diary, I have never felt more peaceful and serene than I did at that moment. It gave me a tremendous sense of well-being.

…Please excuse me. There's someone at the door. I also have this queer sense of foreboding, like despair is just around the corner.

Bah, it's probably nothing.



They've assigned me another counsellor! This…this…THIS IS AN OUTRAGE. A farce of the highest order! I demand a recount in Florida! It was rigged, rigged I tell you! We demand net neutrality! DRM is flawed! Stop warrantless wiretapping! Save the whales!

…Wait, what am I going on about again?

Oh, yes. Now I remember. They've given me a new counsellor. There is only one way I can fully express my view on this matter:



If the word 'hate' was inscribed on every nanometre of every neuron in my brain it would not even come close to the hate I feel for the Chansey at this very moment.




Ahem. It seems the disappearance of the previous one hasn't put them off trying to press their ideals on me. Peasants. As for the newest lamb to the slaughter…this new counsellor is apparently of a species quite rare in Kanto. Something called a 'Tyranitar', if I heard them right. I haven't heard of it before, but I'm sure it'll be no match for me. As ever, Mewtwo shall reign victorious.

Remember to tune in tomorrow, Diary. Same Mewtwo time, same Mewtwo channel!