I’m not sure why, but the dreaded gas is back. Without hesitation and like clockwork, it bubbles up and makes its appearance around dinnertime. It’s impossible to hide. It’s impossible to mask…or to hold in. Yikes.
Perhaps it was the oatmeal or the latte or the Thai curry soup…most likely a deadly combination of all three. A tripod of gastrointestinal distress!
Whatever the cause, it makes me giggle. Obviously, I grow more concerned the more it ceases to dissipate…yet it makes me giggle like an immature 10-year-old boy making fart noises in his armpit. It makes me laugh because it is so dang putrid. Sometimes it resembles cheesy overcooked brussel sprouts while other times it has a distinct peanutty odor. I realize that this is very open of me to share with you. I apologize.
At times, I fart with every step I take. It’s hilarious.
I run-fart up the stairs or do a long fart as I slide on stocking feet across the kitchen floor. It makes me picture being in this trampoline park and farting at every bounce. I giggle to myself as I imagine bouncing across the room, away from the green fog, leaving it bouncing in the air for everyone to behold. I would try to drop a little bomb on each springy surface. I don’t even think I could hold it in if I tried. I would bounce up and out the door before they can even sniff me out…I disappear out the door, leaving an invisible gas path behind me. It’s not a crime to fart. It’s not. Even the bloodhounds wouldn’t want to find me! Poor dogs.
On the bright side, if I had a stalker…I wouldn’t have a stalker anymore.