You were the average college student. Normal person, broke as shit, avoiding your parents by attending a college in another state. You also had a boyfriend. Also, very normal for a college student. Your boyfriend Taylor was pretty great. Sweet, goofy, kinda like a golden retriever in manner. He had long, wavy, russet-colored hair, dark cocoa colored skin, reddish-brown eyes, and a lopsided smile that gave off an air of charisma. He was overweight, about 250 pounds, but you didn't mind that. He just liked food. No shame in that. Seeing as this was a strictly backup school in general, nobody gave a shit if the two of you shared a room. Your roommate was always gone anyways, getting shit-faced and collapsing in frat houses. There was one thing that a lot of people would find really irritating about Taylor, though- he farted. A lot. Your room was essentially the world's worst hot-box. But you still loved him, no matter what. Tonight was a Saturday, the night after a rager house party two blocks down in a sorority house. As the designated gays, you and Taylor had been invited- a little bit of a stereotype, but it was fun anyways. However, you knew that all night, Taylor had been glued to the corn chips and the bean dip at the table. This would not be a fun night for you and your nasal system. Like clockwork, you heard him let one rip from his place as the big spoon in your bed, the smell hitting your nose like a truck. He opened one eye, his stomach growling, and he whined, clutching the pillow close. "Eugh...babe? I fucked up...oh my god it hurtsss..." Average Saturday night for you. He never does learn.