D9: The phantom flatulist.

You’re sick.

We all now know this.

You show up in your mini skirt, seduce me into my own bed, and like the black widow that you are, unleash your wrath of poisonous gases upon me.

No warning.

You ate but only a salad at dinner.

No single preparation had I undertaken.

Your dog, sitting on the edge of the bed, dead of the night, laughing to herself with that smug grin. Fool, she thinks as she slowly raises her left leg to pardon a well-timed fart from there yonder.

Bitch, I think.

Mutiny, she counters.

It’s 3 am and I can’t breathe.

I can’t feel my face, my eyes watering.

Or am I crying?

It’s the end of the world and there’s not a gas mask in site.

You don’t even move. No sign you’re alive beyond the acoustics coming from your rear.

I once, twice, thrice maybe, had imagined tucking myself away under and in between the roundness of that ass.

Now I run.

Now, I weep.

Oh, lord.

Advice for the end of the world: #Netflix and chill just got remixed. Bring gas mask. Hide your kids. Hide your wife. You’ll thank me later.

[This is part of a 30 day, comedic writing challenge entitled Advice For The End Of The World. Receive all 30 days of humor here: http://bit.ly/1oRW0Sj]