Not for the squeamish

Have you ever run to the toilet in the middle of the night, undoing your pants on the way, praying that you get there on time?

I did that several times last night. And this morning. After a breakfast of tea and air, I had Andial, in vain hope that it would stop. I got back to my room and collapsed on my bed, knowing that god was punishing me for calling my profs names behind their backs, for bunking classes and being generally EVIL. And I took it without complaint. I went back to sleep.

A few hours later, I woke up. At first, I thought that I was in the sets of Jurassic Park and that there were speakers broadcasting the mother T-Rex's cries to her hurt baby. But no, that was just my stomach. And the roars were moving south, and fast. So I ran, tripping over books, chairs and clothes in my mad rush to the porcelain god, cursing Andial as I ran. I banged the door shut, and....

... it was just a fart.

God bless you, Andial