I’ve been holding in this fart all day.
I remember a time when life was simpler, when I didn’t have to fart so badly. I had time to go before class but I was too lazy to pause Netflix AND get up from my bed AND walk to the bathroom. It all seemed like too much at the moment.
Currently, I am surrounded by beautiful people who probably haven’t farted in their entire lives, so I have to hold it in. The guy next to me can tell. I know he knows. I bet the girl to my right has never even seen a toilet in her life. Sweat is pooling between my eyebrows. Why did I sit in the middle of a row in the lecture hall? If I get up now, people will KNOW what I’m doing. If I hold it in, I might pass out. And if I pass out I might fart during my unconsciousness. That would be even worse. Imagine trying to help someone up who passed out and they fart all over you. That would be so inconsiderate. I don’t want to be rude. This fart has become who I am in life. I’ll name it Casey. No, wait, this fart is definitely a boy. His name will be Shiloh.
I am no longer a human being; I am a carrier of this fart. A fart bag if you will. Do I even want to get rid of Shiloh? What happens when he does leave? I’ll be all alone in life. It’s like empty nest syndrome; my fart has gone away to college and I am just a lonely single mom who dresses up her very small dog in designer outfits. My stomach is tightening just thinking about it, but that might just be the onset of constipation. Oh my god my stomach feels like a million obese cats are walking across my body. Do you know how badly that hurts? That is about 20 pounds of pressure through a surface area of 3 inches. Is this what death feels like? What is the professor even saying? There are only 10 minutes left of class. I can do this. I’ll just let it out really slowly, very stealthily. I have to be lithe and graceful with this fart like an elegant cheetah or jaguar.
This is so gross — why am I this gross? Oh my God, the professor just looked right at me. He knows. He knows I’m a gross girl who farts in the middle of the lecture. I’ll get an “F” on my next test that stands for “Fart Girl.” Will I ever be the same again after this lecture? This fart has changed my life. This fart will be my legacy. On my grave please write “Here lies Bri Boyd, loving mother of her fart son Shiloh and the grossest girl in her lecture class.” Honestly, at this point, I’m not even sure I will make it out of this class alive. So whoever finds this letter, please tell my parents I love them and to take good care of Shiloh.
Bri Boyd is a Humor writer.
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