I never thought I would end up like this – like a tabloid horror story. Someday I bet I’ll be discovered dead, here in my tiny, piss-scented apartment, being devoured by my seventy cats.
Or, at least, the Journal of Clinical Psychiatry says ninety-one percent of us do. Yes, the government, also known as you, paid for a study on the matter. Fat lot of nose-pickers they are.
It's okay, you don't have to admit to it. I know you do it. And don't even worry. Feel good about it. Celebrate it. Enjoy.
Because now, by picking your nose, you can save lives.
Aw. You hero you.
Believe every word of it. Commence note-taking.
Every morning I wake up with a nose full. Both nostrils. I mean, I can't even breathe most days. Sometimes they even wake me up, so I try to get rid of them right there. Lying in your bed is very convenient for this. You don't even have to get up. So long as it's fairly small, inconspicuous and dry you're good to go. Dispose in the corner.
Same approach to sitting on the couch.
This is why we place all of our furniture against a wall. Same place that all those fingernails go when you don't feel like going for the clippers. So you bite them off.
Just vacuum really well when you move out.
Alright, deny it all. That's fine. Go ahead, chalk it up to aesthetics or common sense. Or declare it something like "making the most of your space."
I like it.
Now, dispose all the same.
Unfortunately, this may not always work. I mean, what about when it sticks to your fingers. and just refuses to give up.
This is what happened only two nights ago.
There is nothing worse than getting out of bed. Unfortunately, when frugality prevails causing a centralization of the sole tissue box per residence, traveling becomes involved on occasion.
It was three AM and eerily quiet. I've lived here long enough to know my way around so I don't bother feeling for light switches. Moreover, I can see fairly well due to the flashes of light peering through the blinds in the living room.
I grab my tissue and discard of my big, wet, gooey gob into the center. Folding carefully, maximizing the tissue's capabilities I give a few, good blows just to make sure everything is again at peace within. This should last. Odds are I'll even be able to breathe in the morning.
Thanks to the light in the blinds, I can easily see to the garbage can, once again avoiding the extraneous use of electricity.
See how being cheap works?
The flickering light even allows me to catch a glimpse at the new coffee pot my roommate must have brought home from work. Any other night and I would surely have tripped over this random obstacle.
Yes, I'm mighty grateful for all of this illumination at three AM. I don't know about you, but where I come from the sun is usually down by now.
Moving closer to the garbage can, navigating my way around the large box in the middle of the room puts me closer to the window and closer to the glow.
They say that curiosity kills the cat but, unfortunately, there she sits alive and well in the window. With one paw resting on the blind she watches outside until - our hate being mutual - she jumps at the sight of me thus closing the blind. Still, before she does I conclude that the deep orange hues aren't from the sun or some streetlamp.
Opening the blinds allows me to confirm a large fire downstairs across the grass separating our apartments.
You nose-picking, tax-paying, government-study-participating hero you.
Turns out that the firemen were able to rescue the elderly neighbor that I've never met before. She lives alone.
Claiming I saved the woman, the police offered me a reward. As any noble hero I declined.
Instead, I asked them to ask the woman I've never met to bake me a cherry pie. Old people make terrific pies. It's like an instinct, only one you get on your sixtieth birthday as opposed to at birth.
She baked that pie. Delivered it only three weeks later.
Turns out she was diabetic and the whole thing was made with Splenda which was slightly repulsive but I managed to swallow it down. We sat together and I got us both pie and milk. She removed her teeth as we each had a piece and she relayed her thanks for my "act of heroism."
I felt terrific about picking my nose that night. I thanked God for giving me a rare, wet lot of mucus to deal with instead of a small, dry one. I thanked Him that the police were able to arrive in time to save the old woman. I even praised Him for her endearing but horribly failed attempt at delicious pie which quite possibly but not definitely may one day go on to ruin the reputation of elders' confectionary abilities worldwide.
I did feel bad about not waking up sooner, calling the police sooner, saving more of her stuff or something.
Then again, her cat did die, so there's that.
Now, I don't mean that in a mean way. But it did. And it was wonderful because I was able to talk my roommate into giving her our cat. Turns out hers too was gray and also kind of a jerk cat, only in a cuter way. Still, ours was younger and I told her this delightful little story about how I tried to light the cat on fire this one time and I couldn't so it would surely last longer and through the next fire she had and she liked that. So she took it. I may have made her, I can't remember, but she seemed grateful.
Anyway, they gave her a new apartment somewhere. I still see her every once in awhile. She seems to be doing well, all things considered.
Even lets me call her, "Granny."