Judge away, but it's not just me

There's something about farts. Have you noticed that the farter never really seems to notice their own stink? I'll be honest, I'll put it out there (so to speak) - I don't mind the smell of my own farts. I'm not saying it's enjoyable, nay, nay. But there's something very comforting about knowing exactly where that smell is coming from. I made that. (Prideful tone not intended, but included nonetheless.) But gas from anyone else's ass, gross. Even if it's the fart of someone you know or care about; if it's someone else, it's offensive.

It's like when little kids poop and want to look in the toilet afterwards. They don't want to take the poop home and snuggle it, but they do want to see what they made. Did I say little kids? I meant everyone.

So there's that.

It makes me want to...

While I’ll likely be first in line for a trip down Memory Lane, taking a right on Nostalgia Boulevard,  I have to say, my electronic book is not only the way of the future (the future is now!), but it is also a welcome replacement for so-called tree books. This has no bearing whatsoever on the eminent downfall of the print industry in general. That’s just sad. A-boo! Here’s the thing. The smell of books gives me the overwhelming feeling that I am going to poop my pants. I don’t know if it’s the manufacturing/treatment of the paper or the binding glue. I’m sure you can imagine what putting a Starbucks into Barnes & Noble does to me.

I went there.

Yum.