In honor of Harvard’s annual V-day rendition of “The Vagina Monologues,” FM passes the microphone to a gender-neutral orating body part: the humble navel.
“The late 90s were rough for everyone, but for us in particular. The early 2000s were even more brutal. I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but you aren’t Britney Spears circa 1999.
The next time you want to take your inner slutty Catholic out for a spin, please remember that I carry over 1,400 strains of bacteria. I’m a dime-sized bio terrorist.
Keep that in mind whenever the fancy for an exposed midriff strikes.
Just because I’m not crusading for crop tops like Carrie Bradshaw doesn’t make me some kind of prude. I was just a little insecure. Your cousin Brad once tried to stuff me with mini M&Ms. He fit three before your mom made him stop. All I’m saying is: umbilicoplasty. We could look into it. Karolina Kurkova did it. Just saying. Brad. What an asshole.
We’re only going to have a few more summers of bikinis, okay? I’m not going to shamelessly bare all like some Seaside Heights outie until we’re 40. At a certain point, we’re going to have to invest in a little more spandex than you’re used to. But please wait until you’re at least 50 to buy a Miracle Suit. We’re better than that.
When pregnancy eventually distorts me beyond repair, remember that it was I who facilitated all of those body shots during senior year.
Speaking of senior year, why is your mother so square? The hole has basically completely closed, and anyway, I kind of liked it.
By the way, I think I have displacement condition. I was Googling “Ayuverdic principle,” and I read that if the distance between me and your left foot, and me and your right foot isn’t equal, I’m displaced. We should look into yoga lessons.
Oh, and for heaven’s sake—we’re adults. Stop calling me a belly button. It’s embarrassing.”