I could have sworn that some girl in my last class of the day farted. I walked through the part of the class where she (whoever she was) was sitting, and found myself enveloped in a noxious cloud with a label that read, "Made in Colón."
I wonder what it must feel like to be that girl. The desperate urge to crawl under the table... the intense regret... the fear of ostracism...
...or was she more of the "Ha ha! And I'd do it again!" type?
I wonder.
_
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