When I first met my hubby-to-be (yeah, that's right--SKAMPCITY IS GETTING MARRIED), I initially found myself rather shy in the farting department. Which, of course, didn't last much longer than a 16 year old boy the first time he gets laid. But that's beside the point.
In those first few weeks of dating "Mp", holding back my farts was a discomfort Skamp is not accustomed to. In fact, it totally fucking SUCKS. So to remedy this (as we know that actual refrainment is not a viable long-term solution for me), I came up with a genius plan. Somewhere along the way, it dawned on me that most of the noise from flatulence comes from my large, wimpy butt cheeks flapping in the flatulent breeze. So in a way, farts are kind of like your butt cheeks clapping in approval. Butt applause, if you will. "Way to go, Skamp! That was a good one!" Now here's where you might be asking yourselves "what's the point of all this? Hm?" Oh, right. The point is that I'm HILARIOUS and HILARIOUS PEOPLE talk about stupid shit. But, is this really stupid shit, or is it disguised brilliance? I'm going with the latter, because I'd finally found the key to letting those fuckers rip without my new boyfriend knowing about it. (Unless, of course, it reeks like last week's cat turds sitting in a puddle of stagnant water--then you're totally fucked.) Friends, the solution is finally here. Drum roll please: you grab your cheeks and spread them apart while flatulating. Instead of making heads turn with your cheeks clapping like overly proud parents at a Little League game, your fart is barely audible with only a slight "wissshh." Holy shit balls, I outta win some kind of Nobel Prize for that. I'm a regular Stephen Hawking. Minus the wheel chair. And the inability to speak. I wonder if he's ever gotten a boner?
Well, any hooooo... what's all that go to do with potential? I'll get to that, eventually.
Before I met my wonderful fiance, I spent a number of years dating this really kind, wonderful fella who used to do copious amount of cocaine, drink for days at a time, lie to me about anything and everything, and stalk me all the way to NY. He was kinda romantic, that way. He would charmingly whisper sweet nothings in my ear like "oh baby, you're so...FAT. How'd you get that way? You know how embarrassing it is to be seen with you when you're so FAT?" Oh lawd a' mercy did I love that man and all the love and commitment he bestowed upon me. You might wonder how'd I manage to hang on to such a charmer for so many years. I held on to him for one reason, for one word: potential. When he'd call me a piece of shit, he was always drunk, or high, or both. And of course I'd cry and tell myself that I was going to leave that fucker in the morning. But the thing was, in the morning he'd feel so incredibly bad about saying all those things ("Why you throwing up, huh? Because you're fat? Because you're trying to lose some weight?"). He'd look at right through me with those gorgeous and enormous blue eyes and tell me he didn't mean it, that he'd never do it again. That it was time he went to AA and ditched his cocaine friends. He'd show me, you know, his potential. And I'd look back at him and see that he really DID mean it, that he really WASN'T an asshole, just a lost puppy who couldn't seem to get the addiction monkey off his back. Yeah, that's right... I saw his potential. And I held on to that potential until my self-esteem completely shit the bed, until I was completely terrified every time I heard the sound of diesel trucks (because after I'd left him, he promised his sweet little promise that he'd run me over if he saw me crossing the street). Yeah, that potential is such a darling little concept. So darling, it cost me my self-respect and several years of my life. And so the next time you find yourself repeating to yourself "oh, but he has potential", put that dick down and RUN. Run as fast as you can, sister, because he ain't never gonna cut it for you.
Alright...And this, my faithful following, brings me to my point: For a while there, I also thought that my future husband had the potential to be my future husband. But the problem was that I also kept seeing in him who I'd hope that he'd become. I kept hoping he'd snore less and miraculously stop dropping his shit all over the place. And by shit I mean stuff-- like clothes. Not shit as in spider monkey. But after 4 years, we're finally getting hitched. Because I stopped looking for his potential and have accepted him for exactly who he is. And since then, our love has been pretty fucking sweet. Like, the kind of love all you unfortunate a-holes wish YOU could have. The kind of love that makes fun of itself, that keeps us laughing most times. The kind that sticks around when I'm being a total monster bitch, blowing hot flames in every direction (from both the front AND the back). No we aren't a walking Hallmark card; you won't find any sort of rom/com cheese anywhere near our relationship. But what you WILL find, is two people who more-or-less accepts the other for exactly who they are. I accept him and his snoring (well, in that I punch him in the side every time he wakes me up, but whatever). And he, well he accepts me too. Because that one time, when I so brilliantly spread my cheeks, he heard me. No, my cheeks didn't clap together, but he did hear the rush of wind coming out my asshole. He heard it and looked at me, puzzled, and said "Um... this is going to sound weird, but... did you just spread your ass cheeks apart so I wouldn't hear you fart?" Sheepishly, I responded "um, no fucking WAY! What kind of girl would do such a thing? Sheesh. I've got at least a little bit of class." But he knew better. He knew better, knows even better now, and you know what? He's not looking for any more potential either.
What's the moral of my story? Potential is an ugly, dangerous word. Potential can keep you hoping for the impossible, keeping you miserable. And it also can keep you from seeing that what's right in front of you is exactly what you needed in the first place.
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