Ahh, the Smell of Methane in the Evening..

      After having dinner (a lovely salad with fresh lettuce and enough carrots to turn your skin orange) and enjoying an all new, action-packed episode of Chuck, Amanda and I decided it was time to freshen the abode. Amanda proceeded to dance and twirl like a fairy around the apartment wielding a can of Febreeze Air Effects. "It smells really nice in here now," she noted as she walked by me to put the can back under the kitchen sink.
     "Yeah, it does," I agreed.
     "...Actually, it smells like you farted."
     "...I did."
     This wonderful exchange has been brought to you by complete security - the level of comfort with another human being afforded by being best friends and roommates. Technically, I got the ball rolling on gaseous conversation in the very first week at the apartment. In one of our first sit-downs as a group, Cheryce, Leila, me, and an initially reluctant Amanda all chatted about that thing that everyone does, but no one wants to bring up. The discussion was longer than you'd think. We went on about types, sound levels, and (my personal favorite) methods of concealment in public. I for one prefer the head-into-an-empty-isle-drop-one-and-walk-away-briskly tactic. It has served me faithfully in the past. I figured, and maintain to this day, that if people can talk about farts, they can talk about anything. Open that dialogue right off the bat and, from that point on, virtually no subsequent conversation will be awkward.
     Case in point: a couple of days ago, I told Amanda that eating blueberries turns your poop green.  Awkward, you say? I think not. In fact, she may have even consumed more blueberries than considered appropriate for simple snacking, just to see if I was telling the truth. I was - I don't joke about poop. Stop laughing.