It is nearly midnight as I write this, and instead of sleeping, as I should be, I am lying awake listening to my stomach.

I don’t know what I ate recently that is causing me such distress.  The disturbing rumblings that are rising up from my midsection may be due to the near pound of prime choice beef that I consumed last night (happy birthday to me, I’m twenty-three, oh god what am I doing with my life), or perhaps they are instead being caused by the copious amounts of syrup I consumed this morning.  I really don’t know.

In any case, these sounds are becoming disturbingly loud.  Normally, given that I have my own room to which I am able to retreat, I would not be overly bothered by such emanations.  However, these are loud enough to cause my bed frame to slightly shudder.  While some of the vibrations are definitely arising from within my intestines, other sounds seem to be materializing out of thin air around me.  Several times, I have been startled by such noises, booming hollowly in my ear.

Currently, I am adopting the fairly safe strategy of remaining absolutely still, curled up and waiting for the bad things to go away.  However, a small but suicidal part of my brain is telling me, even now, that the best course of action would be to jump up and down, roll around a bit, work out all of the remaining pockets in a single stroke.  This is similar to the voice that tells me to shake a can of soda, ensuring that all the gas will be released at once and not trouble me any further.  While this may be technically sound advice from a purely logical view, I anticipate that the consolidated release will put me in serious, potentially mortal, danger.

I am currently experiencing a lull in seismic activity, but I fear that this is similar to the eye in the hurricane, the briefest moment of serenity before the next tidal wave crashes down.  I am in a trough of inactivity, nervously awaiting the next crash of chaotic release.  I know not when the next attack shall come, only that I must suffer through, and that it shall be gloriously horrible and destructive.

I wonder how gentlemen during Victorian times expressed sentiments relating to flatulence.  Obviously, these were not the topic of choice during afternoon tea, over cucumber sandwiches and small china saucers of the finest Indian import, but I am certain that several members of the upper crust must have documented such occurrences in journals and such, private writings that would not be shared with their fellow nobs.  I am certain that, although my vocabulary is extensive, I am still lacking many fortuitous words that would do an excellent job of depicting my current situation.  The loss of these journals is a grievous wound upon the literary world, I am sure.

Oh, here we go again.  It seems I shall get little sleep tonight.

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