Dear My Boyfriend,

I have a terrible, shameful confession to make. This may change your view of me entirely. I don't know if you will ever be able to look at me again. I hope that we can get past this, but I don't blame you if we don't. I am so ashamed. I guess I just can't put this off any longer. I should just admit it. I will come clean now. Right now. Right. Now. I'm not stalling at all. Really. I'm not.

Okay, so, remember the other night when we were having sex? Yeah, of course you do, but, do you remember when you heard that noise that sounded kind of like a sick cow? And then you asked me if I farted, and I said "No, of course not! Why would you even ask that? Does it smell like I farted?" And you said "Yes."? Well, I did. I farted. I ripped one and the smell was stuck in your bed for a week. I tried flipping the mattress while you were at work, but the smell just wafted through it. That smell wasn't coming from the old food in your dad's room. That was residual flatulence.

I am so sorry. I swear it will never happen again, but honestly, I can't take all the blame for this. You are the one who made baked beans, broccoli with cheese sauce, and prune juice. I don't care if that's all you had in your cabinet. We could have ordered Chinese food or something. That dinner was nasty anyway. Prune juice totally does not go with beans.

I feel so much better now that I've gotten this off of my chest, kind of like how I felt better when I got that pressure out of my intestines. So call me tonight and we can talk about this. I know you hate talking, but it really does make it better. I love you sugar bottoms!

Love,
Your little powdered sugar donut