There is no material around that we can buy that will match the proprietary felt that stays clumped inside our vacuous navels. Just let it live. Let. It. Live.
Wait a couple of months to harvest the crop of lint that, by that time, will have amassed an intriguing variety of cloth and cheese. Make up a new origami. Load up a slingshot and torture passed out drunks by pegging them upside the head with frozen rocks of your clammy gut velvet. Build a fort for a tick. Just do something so that belly button lint persecution can stop. End the madness, people. You have the power.
1 response so far ↓
abbey // June 8, 2009 at 6:31 pm |
i can’t let this one go. i think that your selection of ‘love’ as a category here bears a double meaning because navel lint is all wounderfully mysterious and satisfying until a large quantity ends up in a gizm soup at the wrong moment and disgusts your girlfriend.