I am looking in the mirror and I pull my shirt up slowly, seductively and when I look down at what I've revealed in the mirror, I see them: my eight abs. They are beautiful—each and every little ab down there. That's right, I have an 8-pack and it's beautiful. I stare at it, that perfect anatomical 3/4s of an egg carton that now belongs to me. It is developed. It is defined and much like the ring that rules them all, it wants to be found.
As I am looking at this modern-day miracle happening right before my very eyes, I think to myself: "How did this happen? Last time I checked, I was a little chubby around the middle. How did I suddenly go from Finn Hudson to Mike Chang? How did I lose the spare tire comprised of Butterfingers and Nerd Rope? How did I go from 20 percent body fat to what could now only be described as an integer somewhere between seven and nine? I decide not to dwell too much on those flummoxing thoughts because, let's be serious, I have a lot of admiring to do. So, without further delay, I continue my narcissistic vigil by looking back in the mirror and oogling the goodies.
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