No, there are no nudey pics or links to nudey pics on this post. Sorry, guys.
It has come to my attention that there are a few of my readers who think I possess a mysterious and sexy quality. I must admit that I haven’t the slightest idea why they think it. It’s true my busooms are of an ample enough nature to distract from any other physical flaws I may possess, but given the fact that my blog is not filled with pages of my unveiled melons, I assume my supposed sexiness has something more to do with my complete and utter disregard for secrecy. (For some reason, secrecy does not look as though its spelled correctly, but my computer is not telling me otherwise.) I could blather on about the lustful characteristics certain people may think I have, but I can go no longer feign such charisma; I must confess to you all the truth about myself.
I fart in bed.
OH GAWD, the horror of it! I can feel my shame eating me from the inside out (or is it from the outside in?) like the ebola virus! Such crudeness and boorish behavior should never be admitted! But I cannot live another day knowing even one person may find me practically perfect because they know not the unvarnished truth.
I promise, the emitting of noxious vapors is not an intentional act. (Unless I am alone, and even then, I feel contrite.) But you know that place between asleep and awake? That place where Peter Pan is supposed to be able to find Neverland and all your greatest dreams are on the edge of coming true? That is the place filled with the putrid stench of my inadvertent half-asleep butt fluffs.
I was always taught that a lady does not break wind where another soul may hear it. This seems to be an antiquated principle, for I have encountered many people of the female variety who do not balk even for a second after they’ve filled the silence around them with a juicy ripper. Or perhaps it is that I have not encountered many “ladies”. Whatever the rules are nowadays for things like this, I maintain that it’s best to deny, deny, deny.
Denying is not something you can do in the wee small hours of the morning before the birds awaken to sing hymns to the sun and your ass decides to have a mind of its own.
Perhaps it is the definite and uncontrollable aging of my body that makes it to be so, but in the last week, there have been at least TWO incidents of my unacceptable behavior. While my Rockstar has had the decency to not openly discuss the matter, his almost immediate vacancy of the bed after my Ass Music performance this morning was enough to want to bury my head under the covers and suffocate myself in my own detestable gasses.
Assurances of “everybody farts” are not comforting.
While I do not admit my undying attraction to my Rockstar when he rips ass, neither do I expect him to pronounce, “You’re so sexy right now, I’ve never wanted you more” when I fail to control my gluteal expressions. In fact, I feel he has every right to ban me to the couch forevermore.
Oh, just let me die.