Frappucino Farts

 

I have a pretty steady habit of waiting until the day of my first class to purchase new notebooks. It’s not the best habit, but it is a scholastic tradition, and if Michele Bachmann has taught me anything, it’s that tradition is important (and that hurricanes are actually just God throwing a tantrum). On Tuesday, I made my way to the bookstore to keep up my last minute notebook buying tradition. I was in the pen aisle trying to decide between black and blue (which is dumb, obviously the correct choice is always black), when my thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched squawking of two twenty-somethings wearing Victoria’s Secret sweatpants and carrying giant Frappuccinos. The conversation went something like this:

Dummy #1: “So I like, finally tried anal with Ryan, and he got about an inch in before I totally screamed.”

Dummy #2: Oh my god, that is like, so fucking scary! What did you do?!”

Dummy #1: “I ran to the shower, and then he came in, and we were both just like, sitting there in the shower crying together… It was like, so cute. Although I think we were crying about different things.”

Dummy #2: “Ugh, anal is so hard.”

It was somewhere around the mention of “getting an inch in” when the foulest, most rancid-smelling fart fumes hit me face. I didn’t know which of the two idiots pumped that smelly mess out of her b-hole, but I think it’s a solid argument for why people shouldn’t try to subsist on a diet of Starbucks Frappuccinos and laxatives.

The fart fumes were starting to blur my vision, so I grabbed the first pen I could find and made my way to the register. After walking across campus and up three flights of stairs, I finally found my classroom and stepped through the door just as the professor was making her opening remarks. About 45 seconds later, another girl burst through the door and took the only available seat, which happened to be right in front of me. Guess who it was. If you guessed Dummy #1, hooray! You’re correct! She collapsed into the chair in front of me, tossed her hair extensions onto my desk, sucked down the last remnants of her milkshake masquerading as coffee, and sighed. Then farted. Which answered my earlier question of which of the two dummies had farted earlier.

Later I realized that the whole situation was a perfect metaphor for how I feel at the start of every semester. I get really excited at the prospect of learning new things. I convince myself that this will be the semester that I don’t miss any classes and I won’t dread group work. Then I smell the inside of someone’s butthole, and it makes me never want to leave my house again, so that I only have to smell my own farts. The moral of this story is that my anxiety really goes into overdrive at the start of every semester. Also that you should eat a balanced diet.

Zooey Mae has been working as a writer monkey for Synthesis Weekly since 2007. Her favorite things include (but are not limited to), Jeffrey Brown, bubble wrap, Craig Thompson, pillow forts, receiving handwritten letters, and whiskey. She spends her free time stockpiling supplies for the impending robot Apocalypse and avoiding eye contact with strangers.