You know that moment when you passed gas under the blanket a while ago, then you go to get up, lift the blanket and suddenly your senses are assaulted with the somewhat soured scent of what you ate 2 hours ago, and you're shocked and surprised and a little embarrassed because you were sure that since you farted 10 minutes prior, the smell should have dissipated and then in the same instance, you're thankful no-one else is around and you think "Why DO farts hang around for so long?!"
Also, that moment where you politely remove yourself and go stand in a different room to release your pent up gaseous cloud, only to have your loved one pop up unexpectedly by your side just moments later, and you thought you were safe but really you should have known that they'd come over to check out what you were up to once you got up and you weren't really safe after all.
I mean, these things never happen to me, of course. I'm far too perfect to ever fart. I've trained my body to swallow farts and reuse that as a new form of energy with which I can utilize whenever I see fit. I'm like that car that can run off garbage. Oh wait... that was in a movie, it's not reality.
But you know, sometimes I want to just talk about stuff like that, but there's nowhere public that's private enough to be immature in any more. So I'm writing it here. I ought to be allowed to be as immature as I want to be on my blog and hope that it doesn't come back and kick me in the gas releasing hynie. Is that how you spell hynie?
Raise a glass with me... cheers, to always having that immature streak inside of you, and letting it squeak out from time to time.