![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__aqXgu3E0cIELQN9olLCZWZkDFItb5TYwpyg2_0Vm1GbS4ySKH1JpNzezo7rcRXvyptA9K42tTjAm4bZMLgPjj-WK_nK10jiLxs86AUU6_eLbPRDH2PNZ05EgFaNrJw5ulnKrQvVbHA/s280/muffin_top-712047.jpg)
I wanted to make a post about this muffin top situation I have going on around my equator- BUT! I did what I always do, and I checked with the FBI and they said the photo of my real life muffin top/love handles (speaking of waves like a river) was too disturbing to Americans and so . . .
Imagine that muffin up there- my jeans are the paper cup (only much, much tighter) and the fat bags hangin' from my gut are the delicious chocolate chip muffin/cupcake whatever it is. ONLY WAY WORSE.
Oh- our lives here on Earth are just a parentheses in the middle of the sentence that is our existence. I know this- and yet- my muffin top still bothers me. I am only human. For now.
You know who does NOT have a muffin top?
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVRVkwD7mYccGp-oUYUovBZjROLcNEdD-j3iQJJC1Wg1Yi4Bb_GoC4yoAZM1vWdojSF82fvKL_8nZxG8s4YHag_aWskuxktkHsDNM42VCjFV0eLBFk88o-OQ57druINNwpl9UuQqwSa94/s280/tumblr_lrupitAqEf1qzg0ito1_r1_400.gif)
Blaine.
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