The gaseous phase of my pregnancy appears to have kicked in. After optimistically bragging that I had farted no more than usual since getting knocked up, the gas building up in my bowels has turned paramount. Working directly and constantly with the public, in addition to riding transit to and from work, has cultivated a gas-centered anxiety in me. When will I be able to fart freely without the scrutiny of my coworkers? Where is the ideal place to let ‘er rip? Releasing this painful and odorous build up is, apparently, an art. Waiting for optimal moments in planetarium shows, where audio is especially loud, and finding low-traffic areas where coworkers are unlikely to stumble and bear witness to the olfactory evidence has become my obsession. I feel like a closet alcoholic, stealing away to feed my addiction.
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