This week's letter comes from Shartaholic.
Luckily, I work at home. So don’t get the wrong idea. I have, once before, sharted at work and had a hell of a time cleaning it up (in khakis, no less), but this happened today so I thought I’d share.
You know when you fart and you think it could be wet, so you wiggle a bit in your pants to feel if there’s some moisture bouncing back between your butt cheeks? I’ll have you know, that’s not a fail-safe plan.
At 10 am I farted. It felt awkward. I wiggled. I reached loosely into my boxers, which were under my gym shorts. I found nothing.
At 11am I smelled something. So I checked again. I wiggled. This time, it was damp. I reached a hand down and it was poop.
A whole hour I had been stewing in my own filth, slaving away on the computer. An hour with the stench creeping into my gym shorts and making its way onto my computer chair. An hour where the dense compilation of odorous particles silently swam through the air, up to my nostrils, providing a slight but shameful confession.
I just sighed. It happens all too often when I ‘test the waters.’ More often than not, I find more than water. It has gotten to the point where some might say I have a problem. I see it as an obsession with a dangerous game like Russian roulette. You always know you have the same chance of getting shot or shart, but you play for the thrill of it.
I cleaned it off immediately. And tomorrow, when the challenge is upon me again, I will not shy away. Never.
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