I swear I'm not copying the Dooce.

I remember awhile back I was going to talk about this subject, but I would forget or I'd be at the studio (which is where I am right now) and not able to blog. But fuck it. I just kicked the guy off the computer and I'm gonna write damn it. And you'll read it, and be completely grossed out! And I don't care!!

My roommate and I have become one big fart. I swear, it started out innocently enough. I warned him when I first moved in, that although I'm a girl I still fart way more than the standard 14 times a day. And that I refuse to hide this while at home. Because hiding it at work can be absolute torture sometimes (imagine the fear of letting one rip in your office and then your boss comes in- hasn't happened yet, but i'm just waiting for that day to come).

Well, now Steve and I have become pretty comfortable with this whole farting thing. Almost too comfortable. We're like dueling fucking fart machines. It gets to the point where I have to Febreeze the couch, not for the rugrats that randomly come by to drool and crush cookies, but because we just ate out of my 7-lb container of peanut butter and man when it comes out the other end stand back, take cover and hold your noses folks- because it's like a perpetual dutch oven in our living room.