confessions of a somewhat-reformed nose-picker
Someone caught me picking my nose on the street the other day, and for a moment time was suspended, and I was transported back to a childhood of booger-encrusted bedroom walls and shrill parental admonitions. The shame was born anew, and I felt like crawling inside my nose and hiding.
Unlike my younger days, which I spent walking around with fingers up my nostrils as if my head was a bowling ball, I hardly ever nose-pick in public anymore. But it was early in the morning, my breathing was impaired, and I figured no one was on the streets, anyway. I was tragically wrong.
Blowing my schnozz into a hankie never worked. A gummy blast of clear fluid will come out, but the prize—the Emerald Gem—clings to my nasal walls, requiring digital excavation. I'll usually grow one pinkie fingernail to "coke spoon" length in order to ease the rock-digging process.
"Pick it, stick it, lick it, and flick it" was the mantra as a kid, and I'm down with everything but the licking. I've picked enough boogies in my life to make a giant green medicine ball, but never ONCE have I tasted the fruit of my nostrils.
That's just disgusting.
