Today, I was going to write about how, despite the fact that we’ve spent the past three months basically shacking up together every weekend, GTB refuses to…ahem…pass wind in front of me. I think it’s hilarious, and sweet. I mean, really, I’d prefer it this way rather than being with a guy who finds nothing offensive about ripping one while spooning me. But still, the poor kid is gonna explode one of these days.

I was going to regale you with stories of how sometimes he won’t let me in the kitchen after he’s been standing in there for a few seconds by himself and then he insists on fetching me whatever it was that I was searching for. Or how, after consuming mass quantities of a Superbowl spread made up of queso, guacamole, chips, salmon, beer, and CHILI, he still wouldn’t let off a little steam with me in the room.

Despite my pleas that he just go ahead and let it out, that we will be living together at some point and he’s going to have to get over this particular shyness, that I DON’T FUCKING CARE, he keeps bottled up until he’s at least two rooms and a loud TV or stereo away from me.

Yeah, it was going to be a hilarious post. I was going to compare the first big fart with the first big fight in a relationship. I was going to be eloquent about how it’s an obstacle you must tackle together and once you have, you’re closer and more comfortable, and, really, more of a couple.

But when I asked GTB if I could write about his shy bowels, he said, “Ugh. I’m not so sure about this.” Which is what I get for asking, I guess.

So, dear reader, I will not be writing about GTB and farting, or not farting.

Sorry.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, February 7th, 2006 at 5:02 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.