I’ve been spending a good part of the day on a personal project that truly baffles me. My boyfriend and I were playing another self-invention of a game the other night. The rules are that player one has to smack their hands on the wall, and guess the name of the film player two is singing the soundtrack to, while being tickled. And under no circumstances connect his/her hands to anything but the wall, until the guess is approved. I personally put tickling in the this-hurts-like-Darth-Vader-hurts-peoples-feelings category. In this category you can also find the bumping-your-toe-into-a-tableleg pain. The thing they have in common is the high peak of annoyance level they take you to. Kind of like when I did the cinnamon challenge without knowing how it devilishly brewed an increasing dry Sahara in my mouth. I was ten, and well annoyed. The thing with tickles though, is, that seem to diffuse giggles all over your annoyance, which tricks you both mentally and physically, similar to the event of a unicorn breaching reality poking your with its giant poking device of a horn. I would giggle a bit however, I’m thinking it would be annoying too, and because of its mythical status, I would be quite confused. However, I managed to bring myself to an even more impressive state of confusion, when I then today re-gained one of my observations as a child. You cannot tickle yourself! And this is what I based my personal project on today. Even if I really scrubbed my fingers with a chinesemassa(cre)ge power against my ribs, it doesn’t do the trick. I wonder if I used someone elses hand to tickle me – but with my hand and movements, would I then be able to create the tickling sensation? I just don’t get it.
Taking a break from my addiction to watching cat videos on YouTube, I thought I’d give BBC’s Frozen Planet a watch, just to see how those Antarctic creatures were doing (being trapped under ice and such). Because David Attenborough’s voice sounds like fairies toe-tipping on summer clouds I was listening intensely. I suddenly crashed into delusion as he explained that Narwhals – The unicorns of the Sea don’t have any use at all, for their huge horn which is bashed through their upper lip. Now, hold your horses, my mind irrupted. So these whales have a 2.7 meters long sword speared through their mouth flesh for nothing?!
Mind blowing as it was I look down my own body and my eyes drops at my bellybutton leaving me in a surprised state, similar to when Harry Potter figures out that Voldemort is in town. This weird looking spiral of belly flesh leaves us in the exact same situation as the Unicorn Whale! (Leaving out what happens after the string is detached with a sharp edged instrument at birth, of course) I’ve walk on this planet now for 22 years, and not once have I been like “Hold on, I’ll just get my belly button out to for this particular situation”. So I do wonder, if we don’t need our belly button after the birth procedures, why doesn’t it grow back together leaving no trace, just like when your body heals itself from your clumsy/drunk moments?
Instead we have this hole with a dead-end flesh wall, which consumes fluff like the Cookie Monster consumes cookies. Like the Bermuda Triangle, it sucks in storage, and no one knows how it got there. Look down your bellybutton now, there’s probably a fluffy surprise for you there, and it’s not one of the good ones (like when you tidy up your room and find twenty quid). I bet that we could live without our bellybutton. Maybe we need it for magic in the future. Who knows.