Gas, toots, farts, frogs, and the third trimester

As I round the second corner of this pregnancy into the third trimester I'm finally beginning to experience some of the mythos and stigmas and humor of pregnancy.
"Your body is not your own."
"You lose control of the little control you had."
Etc Etc Etc
Maybe these things were there all along and I was just so depressed I couldn't see it?
Maybe I'm finally in a place with myself, Nugget, and our body to really appreciate it?
Maybe the third trimester is the physical boiling point of pregnancy and all pistons are firing full throttle?

Probably a little of all three topped off with the mysterious pregnant unknown.

Either way.
The heart burn is here.
The lower back pain has arrived.
The hip dislocation has appeared.
Pregnancy brain is real.
And the farts.
Lord, the farts.


Now, anyone that knows me knows that I believe farts to be the funniest thing on this planet next to Bill Burr and babies making faces videos. It has been my kryptonite in many an argument, the reason I cry from laughing, and the center of my hilarity universe for as long as I can remember.  People that know me also know that I.... myself... have attempted to live my own life as fart-free as possible.
How can that be, you ask?
I alter my diet, I fart alone, and I really try very very very hard to never let anyone who likes, loves, or wants to be around me see, hear, or smell me fart. Ever.
It's a rare occasion when one slips out.
(Pro tip: if we're ever in the same building and I'm alone in a room laughing hysterically at something you don't know, it's probably because I just farted.)
Now, don't get me wrong... I have actually broken up with partners over incessant farts. No joke. If you carelessly and constantly fart in my presence without remorse, without control, and without consideration--Imma start gettin' pissed. And icked out. And turned off. It can cross the line into gross-ville quickly and will begin to rot away and ruin my respect and sexual attraction towards you.
Fret not, it's not an invisible slippery slope. I'm diligently vocal about all things relationship and disgust as sex with you is most likely top priority.

So after this brief history of my beliefs in farts, you all have a clue of where I stand. That's what is making this third trimester... of my very first pregnancy...
the funniest....
most hilarious...
most embarrassing...
most ridiculous....
most hypocritical...
all shapes and sizes...
all sounds and reverbs....
all places and locales....
all the gosh darn time...
fart fest of my entire life.

I was on the toilet just the other day and attempted to gently perhaps do a fart test check and squeeze out a little gas in the appropriate place and my bones cracked. MY BONES CRACKED. My back and hips cracked like I was at the chiropractor! I mean, what? Thanks, relaxin. This just means that I sat there and laughed and farted another three minutes.

I think it stems from genetics.
Members of my family, who I will attempt to remain nameless, are also giggling farters. This person often farts deliberately and not very quietly, in public and private, making the self laugh into fart frenzy and--oh my, it's the funniest thing I've ever bared witness to in my entire life.
One time we were in Walmart and the culprit mentioned above started farting in the tv/electronics  aisle, turned beet red, and began scooting away from me so as to imply to other shoppers that *I* was, in fact, the flatulence source! I scooted right after this person and thus began a laughing, slow motion, chase scene fart fest down the aisles.  Two hysterically red inside joke giggling people chasing fart blame in Walmart.

This is my genus.
This is what makes me who I am.

See, Nugget, you're blowing and tooting right into the best family ever.