Farting in Bed

Sigh.

He is farting.

In bed.

I guess I should feel special. Because he likes to sit right next to my head when he does it.

Isn’t that sweet?

He’s been cranky since the day I met him.

So when he started curling up next my head a night, I thought – “Oh, he likes me, after 10 frakking years of loyalty he really likes me.”

Or maybe he thinks a fart that has to travel a long distance to my nose – loses its magic.

Who knows?

And then, there is the snoring. It started over the last Christmas break.

One night, I woke up to the sound of a slow-and-steady freight train chugging its way through my bedroom.

I thought it was me because night time makes me stupid.

And of course, I was in complete denial…

“No! I am a delicate flower, dammit!” [who does not make any weird noises with my face or buttocks. That is my story and I am sticking to it.]

Then, I realized it was him.

Oh-ye-of-copious-hairball-pukage, my cat, Dakota.

Don’t get me wrong… I love him like cooked food.

But he certainly maximizes the potential of all of his orifices.

It’s like living with Linda Blair from the 70’s horror movie… That I can’t think of the name of right now.

Um… You know the one?

Hm… Fuck!

Brain fart.

Not unlike the writing brain fart I have been experiencing.

I write a sentence. I delete a sentence.

I write a paragraph. I delete paragraph.

I feel like I am doing my best to fight through the wordless torture.

But sometimes my best attempt sucks.

Like my soup.

I mean alleged soup.

In my other life [ like 3 months ago] I fancied myself as someone who makes soup when it’s cold outside [or once a year. Let’s not get ridiculous.]

I have no desire to use the kitchen-place, the magic flame box or pretend that I am a cooking diva.

I just wanna make soup once a year. Is that so wrong?!

So I brought a crock pot. The notoriously idiot-proof crock pot.

Over Christmas break, I looked up a delicious recipe.

Then, I went to the Bermuda Triangle of food – where I had to sell one of my kidneys for a parking spot.

The supermarket.

I brought fresh pink chicken breasts. Real carrots [that weren’t in a can. Who knew that was thing?]

And all of the other recipe ingredients.

Right. Here we go.

Let’s make yummy vittles!

1 – Touch slimy chicken breasts [without vomiting] and put them in the magic pot.

2 – Get a chopping board thingie [that came with the house – because you know damn well I didn’t waste my hard-earned money on that nonsense].

3 – Use the sharp thingie that opens letters to chop carrots and celery.

4 – Plop everything else in pot.

5 – Turn magic pot on.

6 – Forget that it is on. [This is the best part. Forgetting things are cooking is my specialty.]

7 – Let it slow cook for 2 decades.

No, really. Tons of things will happen before the soup is done.

• Kim Kardashian and Kris Dumphries finally divorced,
• leg warmers are back in style,
• and cheesecake is now a food group.

Suddenly….

Floating clouds of delicious dance through the air, dance through the house.

My nose literally orgasms and smokes a cigarette.

It’s ambrosia, dammit. Frigging Harry Potter magical.

At last, I pour my amazing concoction into a bowl or cup [or whatever is clean.]

And much like most haircuts, sex and tax returns, it was a total disappointment.

My soup tasted like bath water.

Sigh.

Apparently, the crock pot – is 90% crock and 10% pot.

Sure. If your life-resume clearly states – “I can frigging make magic with food,” then you will also make magic with the crock pot.

But if you are woefully inept in the kitchen-place…

Then, the magic pot just demonstrates how much you actually suck.

Okay. Now, let’s review…

Any questions?

But at least there’s only one pot to clean.

That is, if you clean. Me? I dabble.

I am not sure who is supposed to do the cleaning around this joint – I just know it’s not me.

My love for the crock pot was gone.

But the soup hung around for a while [joined the family. Got a driver’s license].

I left the soup in the fridge. For months.  December… January. [Honestly, who has time to clean the fridge? Why is that even a thing?]

It just sat there. A non-starter. Lots of work and nothing to show for it.

And time passed.

So much time had passed that…

• Kim Kardashian re-married that idiot Kris Dumphries and had a baby. All of the names that start with “K” were taken so they named the baby, Kettle – because that seemed sufficiently dumb and arbitrary.
• Pizza is now a food group.
• And Al Roker pooped in his pants and was dumb enough to tell people on television. And that was the day Christmas came early and Santa gave me this…

I just couldn’t bring myself to throw away a barrel of soup.

Such waste.

I finally flushed most of it [the parts that wouldn’t clog my toilet] on that stupid made-up holiday, Valentine’s Day.

I was done with it.

And done is good.

Done with the sentence.

Done with the paragraph.

Done writing a blog. Something. Anything.

Done sounds nice. Doesn’t it?

So does a nice warm place to sleep.

“Are you coming to bed?” Dude X implored. I used to have this boyfriend who always wanted to go to bed at the same time.

Not for sex. Just to sleep.

Is that a couple-thing? Going to bed in tandem.

Note to self: Add “going to bed in tandem” as reason 2,343 on the Never, Ever, Ever Co-habitate List. [I mean even my cats know night time is the right time for a Law and Order marathon. Duh?!]

But I used to be more docile stupid,  so I followed him upstairs to  my cozy little Cape Cod bedroom.

He prepared things…

Turned down the bed. Dimmed the lights.

I let my jammies fall down my naked body to the floor.

All of the sudden my eyebrows were singed from my face.

I couldn’t breathe.

I felt my body getting weak. Mere seconds were left to my beautiful life. And clouds of despair darkened my world.

Sigh.

He is farting.

In bed.

“Seriously dude?! What the fuck?!”

I don’t know why people think other people should accept them as they are?

Dating is about pretending.

Pretending to be someone who is more awesome. A person that keeps all of the cray cray and farts deep down inside their soul.

The only person who should know the “real” you is your therapist. And even then… lie a little.

That’s how you keep the relationship healthy.

That is why “getting to know the real you, the authentic you” is so important.

So you can hide that mothertrucker.

Hello?

Learn to hide some shit. Okay? Learn to hold a fart in until you want to faint and die. [Focus, dammit!]

If only to get laid.

Me?

The last time I farted in bed – was NEVER. I am not adorable – like my cats – I will never, ever, ever pull that shit off.

“I guess the whole getting laid idea is finished?” he demurred, scratching his belly [that I wanted to X-ray for dead carcasses].

“No shit, Sherlock.”

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