Tuna Surprise? Taco Expected.

Yeah, I don't know what that means either. Let's roll with it.

You know what's great about being a bachelorette? Dinner. I'm sitting here with two different coloured slippers on eating crackers with mayonnaise on them and a bowl of leftover macaroni. All that's missing is a bottle of Coke that'll make me release a burp that would make my dad proud followed by a bellow of a laugh from yours truly at how absolutle filthy I am when no one else is around. Alas, no Coke. Sadness.

Now that we're purposely on the topic of grossness, I had a bit of an issue last weekend that I will share in hopes of possibly helping anyone else that finds themselves in the same situation.

Rewind to Saturday. I thought, "I want some juice." So, I went to the store and bought some juice. Some deliciously fruity pink grapefruit juice to be exact. Mmm, it was good. I must have plowed through probably a litre of that stuff in a day. I thought, how can something so delicious exist without being harmful to me? Enter Sunday.
I swear to God if I was married, my husband would have divorced me due to the odour coming out of my ass on Sunday. I don't know WHAT that pink grapefruit did in my tummy... maybe it threw a "Let's be stinking assholes" party for all the food that was in there and any newcomers. Or maybe it just took little grapefruit shits all over my intestines. Anyway, whatever went down in there, it revolted.

You know those early morning farts you get sometimes that smell like hot bad eggs? Well, take that, add in an entire farm of bad eggs and all the surrounding cow shit in the pastures and you're sort of close to how it smelled. And it was frequent. I'm talking every 5 minutes frequent. The whole fucking day on Sunday, what should be God's day or whatever it is that's special about Sundays, and here I am with a serious case of cat butt with no option of stopping it. Please don't laugh at me. I was quite concerned.

Monday morning rolls around and guess what woke me up? You got it. I'm not even going to say it out loud. Oh, PS, I apologize to all the men that read this. It must be a huge turn-off. I do strongly believe I was not put on this earth to impress anyone. Anyway, the whole day at work on Monday I was running to and from the file room to land my bombs so that it wouldn't hover around me and my desk the entire day. And trust me, it would have. It stung my eyes. I wanted to apologize to the air. It was that bad.

Eventually, it did taper off and my rear was once again smelling of roses and oranges, but let me tell you, I was afraid. I thought maybe I'd been pregnant with a garbage can and it went and aborted itself in my rectum. So let this help anyone suffering from Aborted Garbage Can Syndrome. You're not alone. You do fucking stink, though.