I don't have a belly button.

The doctor used his navel scooper, carved it out and threw it away. In its place, he left me with a crooked, 6-inch scar. I could be suspected of being an alien. I assume they have mothers, so they must have navels, too.

Mine was a cute little half-innie, half-outie, and it gathered lint that I was saving, hoping one day I would have enough to knit a sweater or a pair of socks. Easy come, easy go.

Here's what happened:

Pretty fascinating article, actually, although for some reason it gives me the same heebie-jeebies as the nullo stuff (see the archives from a couple months ago for that). It goes on to describe in pretty graphic detail the disgusting shit that goes on in an infected body and then preaches about organ transplantation for a while; understandable, as the author kinda wants to stay alive, the clever bastard.

Right. Go read. You'll think better of yourself if you do.

Btw, whoever the crew from the Russian Federation is, welcome aboard. Nice to have some fresh faces. Hope you've got more stamina than the Canadians.

Futurama's on and there's some good wine and Lil Sis' presents are wrapped, so I'm out. Have a swell evening, kids.