Note to self:
Spoiling the dogs by giving them scraps of roast beef from the table during your dinner party is amusing when you're drunk.
And letting them lick the plates before putting them in the dishwasher saves you from having to rinse them and stick icky stuff down the garbage disposal.
I get it.
But then there's the next day.
And the farts.
The silent-but-violent, far-reaching, lingering, stomach-churning farts.
Farts that leave sulphur on the palate with a chewy, meaty texture. There's a bitter finish and back notes of laundry left in the washing machine for too long without being dried. The bouquet assaults the nostrils with an aroma of pate, damp raincoats, rotting flesh and fresh feces.
And they just don't stop.
They.
Just.
Don't.
Stop.
If you liked this post, see the other Note to Self posts here.