I want to begin this with an apology … no, you know what — I want you to just accept the fact that this is going to be a low brow post with some quite literal navel gazing. I want you to accept it and I want you to REVEL in it.
Yeah. No apologies on this one.
I used to live in a house with another mid-twenties guy. That combonation on it’s own is bad enouth, though we kept the place quasi-presentable, there were shenanigans aplenty that went on. Some people have no idea how I stayed sober living there. I am one of those people.
I lived with Mike for about 8 months and usually I would take charge of cleaning things like, you guessed it, the lint trap on the dryer. (This blog is less than two weeks old and I already have two posts about this subject. I want to assure you all that I am a slob, and this is the only thing that I clean on an even quasi-consistent basis. I will have a sworn affidavit scanned in and posted on Monday attesting to this fact) One afternoon before an evening out with the girl, the future Mrs. Mason, Jenn shows up and notices a sign taped to the dryer: “Don’t Forget to Clean the Lent Trap”.
But speaking of lint traps, I was getting ready for bed last night when Jenn walks in, sees me with a toothbrush hanging out of one side of my mouth my shirt pulled up high enough to reveal my stomach and picking out this absolutely huge piece of lint from my belly button. She immediately doubles over for about twenty minutes, laughing so hard that I wonder how she could possibly get in a breath. But this lint, it was as big as the tip of my finger. Amazing.
I have a few shirts that do this to me. I wear alot of teeshirts over long sleeved tees, and I get this horrible dryer-like belly button lint that makes me wonder how I own a single shirt that has any cloth left on it around my belly button. Lint must have its own physics.