I Wish I Could Pick My Nose

It’s sad to see the number of writers trivializing this most vital issue. How come? Because they have noses they can pick, so they at least have a choice. A choice they obviously take for granted.

It would be different if they had been afflicted by nasal vestibulitis like I was in the summer of 2003. Apparently, I picked my nose after having touched an infected goat in a petting zoo. Oozing pustules filled my nostrils for days as pus uncontrollably ran down my cheeks. I thought with a little chicken soup, an aspirin and bed rest I could cure this illness, but whoa boy was I wrong. The pustules grew in both nostrils until I could only breath through my mouth.

I had to have them lanced in Mexico by a 2nd rate doctor. Subsequently, scar tissue formed at the base of my nostrils so that it makes breathing through my nose very difficult and picking my nose nearly impossible. Which is why I have to use pipe cleaners to get at all the mucous buildup clinging to the lining of my sinus cavity.

How easy it used to be, picking my nose. The problem back then was were to put the pickings. Now it’s how to get at them. I rarely go out, have sex or stop and smell the roses because of the problems I’m having. Sleep is difficult. And so is living. So the rest of you ungrateful nose pickers, pick on someone else next time, because this is a my Myspace kind of place.

— Pete


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