Let me just start by saying that I never meant for this to happen. When Jenny invited us all to see a Broadway play for her birthday, the last thing I imagined was us taking turns hanging out the window of a taxi on the West Side Highway trying to escape the scent of human intestinal vapor. This was supposed to be a magical night of friendship and laughter and musical theater performance, and I blew it. I blew it through my butt.
Yes, that’s right: I was the one who farted in the cab last night.
Why are you just now telling us this? you may be wondering. And I don’t blame you. There were ample opportunities to own up to my transgression before now. For example, when Christina said, “Oh my god, who farted?” Or when Jenny said, “Seriously guys, who beefed?” I don’t have a good excuse. All I can tell you is that if you ever find yourself in the backseat of a yellow Prius that is gradually filling up with the fumes of your half-digested enchiladas verdes, you may find that honesty doesn’t come as easily as you would like.
Wait, is this a joke? You might also be thinking. Because I thought we all agreed it was the driver, since he’s a boy and no girl could emit a fart that strong. No, this is not a joke; this is a confession. I wish it were the driver, but as you’ll recall, we were separated from him by that plastic thing. It was me.
Yes, hard as it may be to believe, my statements at the time were a betrayal of your trust. The whole time I was fanning myself with my Hamilton program and making hilarious comments like, “Whoa, Allie, did you forget your Lactaid pills?” I was actually covering for my own secret shame. Also, I was still slowly and silently farting. Allie, I especially apologize to you. We all know you never forget your Lactaid pills.
I am incredibly sorry for what I’ve done, and I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. My embarrassment will fade in time and my tummy is already back to normal. What I want is for you to learn from my mistakes and understand that admitting to your farts won’t kill you. It may even make you stronger. I would like to think that at this point, we’re all mature enough to accept that flatulence is a part of life, and may sometimes be a part of Girls Night Out, too. Even when one of us is “stinking up the whole goddamn car, oh my god I can’t breathe,” I think we can all agree that we’ve been friends far too long to let a little booty burp come between us.
And now, whenever Jenny wants to come clean about the photo booth at Mara’s wedding, I’m sure everyone will understand.
