I pick my nose. I think you probably do, too, not in the way of young children, who root around in the wet mess in the center of their face for the simple fact that they haven’t yet learned to be repulsed by wet messes. No. I pick my nose patiently, waiting for the masses that form there to dry thoroughly, that they may be extracted whole and without either muss or fuss.
In other words, I pick my nose like a goddamned grown-up.
Just this morning I extracted a particularly satisfying nose goblin that had taken on the shape of my inner nostril, and I looked at and thought that it resembled a topographic map. Because I am not a slob, I had blown my nose in the morning, before departing on a ride, and I imagined that the dust and mucus which had collaborated to form this map had done so during the ride, so that it was, in fact, a record of the few hours I spent snaking my way through the city’s Western suburbs.
I studied its yellowy surface for clues about specific locations. Is that crest there a souvenir from our climb up to the water tower? Are the smooth edges redolent of the fast roads I took to get back home before my wife left for work?
For a few minutes I contemplated some future technology that analyzes boogers for important forensic information, like the triangulated location of a murderer’s cellphone, or the bit of hair found in the trunk of the assassin’s car. Maybe we will one day discover important clues about the end of the neanderthals from petrified snot found in caves in rural France.
All this I imagined while sipping my post-ride coffee, on the small couch in the front window, as the dog slept lazily beside me.
Eventually, my coffee was gone and responsibilities tapped at my shoulder like the lady at the grocery store who wants to cut in line, because she has just one item. Yes. Fine. Go ahead.
And I rolled the small booger between my thumb and forefinger and deposited in the kitchen garbage on my way to the desk, because, as I said, I’m a goddamned grown-up.