Tuesday, February 17

Sometimes in the morning rush of the metro, when my body merges with what I like to call "The Human Cube," I go to my special place, my happy place. I just close my eyes and pretend I don't have 4 other people pressed up against me and one of them didn't brush their teeth. I normally look up towards the ceiling, because as French people are short, that is where there is the most air. Some of these times in the morning, I am wrenched out of my safe and happy place by an unsettling noise followed by a violently rotten odor. In these situations, everybody puts on their Not Guilty Face and begins to glance around in failed attempts to find the culprit. Except for sometimes, it's so obviously one person that you can't stop giggling to yourself while at the same time covering your face with your pashmina as to avoid suffocating:


Not so stealthy guy
I totally just heard you
Let a fat one rip