Dearest and most delicious diary, it was very peculiar indeed! Allow me now to recount to you this strangest of tales! Jubilations!
One summer morning, while skipping along my merry way through the yellow brick road—a road which had turned a sickening golden shade because it was frequented by scruffy dogs in search of new territory and small men with weak bladders—I chanced upon a most peculiar event. On one of the benches in the park sat a woman and her daughter. Pausing from her game of tag with her imaginary friend, whom for the purposes of this story we shall call Truffles, she and her invisible companion sauntered back to her mother.
She asked a question, as all decent girls should. “Mommy, what’s a circle?”
The mother looked to her daughter and, in an outstanding display of motherly compassion and astuteness, tore her blouse open and revealed to the child and everyone else within viewing range a pair of oversized, magnificently rounded breasts.
The mother declared to her child with dynamic fervor the words which are forever engraved in my soul.
“LOOK INTO MY NIPPLES, CHILD. THESE ARE THE ONLY CIRCLES THAT WILL EVER MATTER.”
The park joggers that had passed by when this had transpired were deeply disturbed, but there was a sparkle of intrigue in their eyes. The daughter too was also disturbed, but the sparkling in her eyes was not of intrigue. Those, dear diary, were the sparkles of fear. It may have also been a sign of trauma.
My, how peculiar!
I can only wonder what would have happened had that poor child approached her grandfather, who no doubt would have been just as adorable as her mother, to make a similar inquiry. Perhaps about a rectangle, maybe? Ah, one can only dream.
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