Innie Infection
*This is a very unique circumstance, so I want to preface this piece by saying that I created this story last year in January and finished it shortly after. A few days ago I stumbled upon a deep dark fear that bore quite a striking resemblance to my story. The fear and my story, Innie Infection, respectively, are as follows: If Jill had to pick her biggest pet peeve it would be people poking her midriff like the Pillsbury doughboy. She was pudgy; she got it. She was lying on her bed watching TV and spinning the cogs of her sweatpants’ drawstring, running her fingers along the insides of the rope. Her anti-idle hands gravitated upward, squeezing the fatty flesh of her obliques, and her fingers marched down around the barrel of her belly. Ten-hut! The procession halted. She dipped one soldier down, her index finger, down into the crevice and felt something sharp in the tiny pit of her stomach. A booby trap! Your bellybutton is full of bacteria, her sister said before