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Monday May 27, 2002 - 6:19 p.m. So goes the Memorial Day weekend. We had the requisite barbecue at Louise's, of course, with her slutty cat and bizarrely energetic daughter (who informed Jason and me in a sincere manner that she was relieved that "they took the eyes and the blood out" of the salmon before selling it to us), and let's not forget Pam either, with her quiet and urgent "suggestions" that are actually demands and don't you forget it, buddy. And Jim. With Jim, the conversation always turns to genitalia one way or another. And it did. And the whole gathering disolved rapidly into frantic muttering and Louise and me cackling over our pie. We are the most mature people you will ever meet, just trust me on that one. But Jason can barbecue one damn fine turkey burger. Speaking of genitalia, and in the ongoing effort to keep you up with the ever-increasing bizarre Google hits to my diary, I have discovered that someone found their way into my diary by searching for "masturbating bag boy." Good Lord, what is this country coming to? Maybe it was the actual masturbating bag boy from my story, do you think? Nah, he wouldn't be searching for himself. It was probably someone else that encountered him. Maybe they're looking for some kind of a support group. If that's the case, let me tell you: it's okay. Just go with it. It's his problem, not yours. There you go. Feel better?
-Mlle R
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