- Where is my belly button? It no longer sits mid-abdomen, cheerfully monitoring my daily doings from the center of my body, but rather appears to be aimed more at the ground.
- Is my belly button looking at the ground because it is depressed?
- My belly button looks like it exploded. Is this why it is depressed?
- One time I saw a starfish that had been run over. That definitely is a better description of the current state of my belly button. I wonder how that starfish got on the road?
- Now that my belly button has front row seats to my neglected feet, does it loathe them, or does it sympathize with them for also being cut out of line of sight?
- If my belly button could talk, would it’s first words be “I TOLD YOU SO!” in regards to how stupid it was to get it pierced 17(?!) years ago, or, “GOOD LORD girl, get a pedicure?”
- Does my belly button hate to be poked by my toddler as much as my brain does? Not that my toddler pokes my brain, but when she pokes my belly button, my brain gets angry.
- Does my belly button have crippling social anxiety about someone confusing it for a giant, cavernous, third nipple, because of the way it pokes out from my shirts?
- Will my belly button be able to transition from “Run Over Starfish” back to “Button” status ever again?
- When a heavily pregnant woman pushes her own belly button, does someone else, somewhere in the world go into labor?
This is NOT my belly button, but it is good reminder never to get a tattoo while drunk off cheap whiskey and high on LSD.
Image credits: Cover image, cat tattoo.