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when I had to fart
Monday, August 30 1999
At around lunchtime I got myself a Macho Combo Burrito at the nearby Del Taco. This might sound like an unhealthy or needlessly expedient lunchtime choice, but it's a definite improvement over my old staple, two Jumbo Jacks at Jack in the Box. When I get lunch by myself in this manner, I usually sneak off to something that passes for a pleasant outdoor location, where I devour my food as rapidly as possible. I know better now than to sit in the cool shade amongst the ice plants (to which I'm evidently allergic), so today I sat on the grass in front of a ticky-tack "condo complex" beneath a pine tree while power ladies in their miniskirted power suits clopped by on stiletto heals. During business hours it seems that white collar business pervades absolutely every nook and cranny of Mission Valley.
When I was done with my meal, I wandered through the complex, foolishly thinking I could find a shortcut back to the office. But these developments for paranoid white people aren't designed to integrate with the surrounding geography; when I came to the end of the sidewalk, I followed a dirt path to a gate that was rusted absolutely shut. So I did as those who had made the footpath had done before me; I climbed over.
At around three in the afternoon, as if on schedule, my large intestine became uncomfortably distended with gas. In my squatter's cubicle, I sit in close proximity to the middle-aged executive assistant lady, but I had the decency to go outside when I had to fart.
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