The March Hare

I went to a party last night. When I walked into the house, I was greeted by cries of 'Amy!!!!', with just that many exclaimation marks. While discreetly sipping a single glass of wine the entire night, I was witty, and interesting, and I looked almost pretty. So almost pretty, in fact, that a former boss of mine attending the same party felt compelled to speak to my cleavage rather than make eye contact. Sadly, I was flattered, cleavage not being my strong point. I applaud anyone who makes the effort to see something of interest there.

I whirled about the room, chattering and meeting people, and re-meeting people. I found someone willing to hold me when it got too cold outside for me to finish my cigarette in comfort. I told compelling stories. I laughed heartily.

And then the night was over. Having finished my glass of wine in just under six hours, I was terribly tired. I located Clurg and positioned myself underneath the back of his coat, which served a dual purpose: keeping me warm, and providing enough of an irritant for him that he would begin to move toward the door in the next half-hour. Things were going swimmingly. I had my hands in his back pockets, and I had almost regained feeling in them, when the unthinkable happened.

He farted on me.