I’m leaning back in my seat. I’m excluding myself from the conversation for the moment and observing those around me suffer from an extreme amount of Tetrahydrocannabinol, or THC. It seems after they exhale they can’t help but cough, and almost as if it were some form of poison and I the pharmacist, watch my patients become red eyed and relaxed, joking and in everyone’s own platonic way they’ve all gained a sense of humor. I have backwash left in my third beer so I set it down, gently forgetting about it. My fourth beer is cold. My backpack has thirty-three beers in it as I toss one to Landon, and I’ve smoked my fill of marijuana for the next hour or so. I stand abruptly, knuckle-pound Landon who seems to be enjoying the conversation, and take several padded steps towards the door. I’m regaining balance, gathering my perception under the pressure of several more bowls and another beer, and I’m staring at the hottest girl I’ve seen in months.
I’m almost lost for words, quickly judging her I can’t find anything wrong. She has perky breasts, sadly being the first thing I notice. She’s wearing a very tight, very thin hunter green shirt and dark blue denim jeans, a black sweater-jacket that girls who know they’re sexy wear. Everything this girl is wearing is accentuating everything she is. I am blown, baffled, and absolutely high. She has dark brown, straight and shiny hair, the most beautiful dark eyes that I can’t make out any further than dark, and she’s wearing small, silver, peace sign ear rings.
I’ve never seen her before. I don’t know who she is, and for some reason I get hungry for hunter green; thirsty for peace sign earrings. I need to stand up straight. I need to puff my chest out slightly, to fix my hair, to stretch my shirt out slightly to rid wrinkles and to freshen the well groomed chest hair revealed just above the v around my neck. I’m taking my deep breath when she looks at me, and she doesn’t judge me through anything but my eyes. I’m hit, sunk into with the eyes of some magic beauty that I can’t describe with words. She looks at me for a few seconds; all I see is amused madness. I’m hit hard, staring back helplessly. I’d already stopped walking, and she stops looking at me, returning to the conversation she’s obviously dominating.
I have a three step move: the hook, the line, and the sinker. The hook is three steps, incorporating a swagger that seems unintentional, this is just a smooth walk in synchronization with the music, each step is intentional, well placed, and quickly done. This doesn’t even seem practiced, an accident, really. The door, or the line, is simple. I merely open it exerting more than the average strength, incorporating control and skillfully forcing the doorknob to the utmost smoothness. The door comes toward me, so I make a smooth transition backward with my left foot, making the entire moment one fluid, synchronized motion. The sinker is my left hand. She’s standing in conversation with other girls, and as I close the door behind me and approach her I pretend that the path where I’d most like to go and to that effect where I need to go is directly by her. I place my hand in the small of her back, gently, and I don’t even push. It is there, gentle, warm, and comfortable. This tells her I’m behind her.
She doesn’t budge to my touch, completely comfortable, dangerous, and absolutely gorgeous. I’m intimidated, but I don’t let it show. My hand is still there. I lean in slightly, issuing with all the seductive inflection I have a gentle excuse. She leans back but doesn’t look at me and with the same seductive inflection she admits that I’m excused.
I can’t do anything but proceed. I don’t look back, and I know she’s not looking after me. As I step away I take a rather large drink, not because I meant to, but merely because I needed to be on her level. I’m thinking about her and she knows it. She’s thinking about me and I know it, it’s an impact I just made and it’s one I’ll pick up from. I haven’t lost, and she knows if I know what I’m doing I’ll be back. She’s preparing for it right now; she’s already judged me, and I’m going to surprise her. The party has just begun.
As I was sitting here, jamming literally to the Mars Volta, I discovered I'd a booger, so naturally as a man sitting in my room with my loneliness to keep me company, I picked it. As I picked it I realized that not only did I pick it, but what was I picking? I'd no idea what a booger was, just a booger. Being boogie, a boogie. Snot rocket, a nose turd. Boogse.
Here is the research I did.
Hey, get your finger outta there! Instead of picking them out, let's learn about those little blobs. Yeah, we're talking about boogers.
To understand what boogers are, you need to know about mucus (say: myoo-kus). Mucus is the sticky, slimy stuff that's made inside your nose. If you're like lot of kids, you have another name for nose mucus: snot. Your nose and sinuses make about a quart (about 1 liter) of snot every day.
Mucus has a pretty important job — it protects the lungs. When you breathe in air through your nose, it contains lots of tiny things, like dust, dirt, germs, and pollen. If these made it all the way to the lungs, the lungs could get irritated or infected, making it be tough to breathe. Luckily, snot helps trap this stuff, keeping it in the nose and out of the lungs.
After this stuff gets stuck inside the nose, the mucus surrounds it and some of the tiny hairs inside the nose called cilia (say: sih-lee-uh). These hairs help move the mucus and the trapped stuff toward the front of the nose or the back of the throat. When the mucus, dirt and other debris dry and clump together, you're left with a booger.
Boogers can be squishy and slimy or tough and crumbly. Everybody gets them, so they're not a big deal. In fact, boogers are a sign that your nose is working the way it should!
If you have to get rid of boogers, your best bet is to blow 'em out of your nose and into a tissue. Picking your nose isn't a great idea because boogers contain lots of germs and because poking around in your nose can make it bleed.
Reviewed by: Steven Dowshen, MD
Date reviewed: July 2009
Date found: Monday, December 14, 2009
Site found: http://kidshealth.org/kid/talk/yucky/booger.html
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Have you ever heard someone say something, say hot dog, and your mind does a sort of flashback montage, everything on the top of your head that reminds you of that noun, say ketchup, relish, overweight children, the child’s parent looking around awkwardly and embarrassed, the overweight boy clinging to the hand the parent pretends they don’t have, the boy wields a gigantic hot dog with ketchup and relish in the other, the one who cries abruptly and rather rudely with hot dog residue all over his face and all over the shirt that is oddly enough too big for him. The things you don’t mean to think about and that you don’t even regret thinking about because you weren’t even thinking about these things. Absentmindedly, the things you never thought to think.
Stereotypes and passive cliché, or the girl who wears baggy jeans and a dirty shirt, the one you absentmindedly picture kissing other girls. The guy who wears cut-off t-shirts and boots, the one you absentmindedly picture getting into an oversized truck later.
Seeing something that stays with you, something you’d prefer to have never seen that comes in and out of your perception with cruelty. Seeing something you wish you’ll never see but you’re now wishing you’ll never see again. Seeing your parents in the barest nude, doing things dirty and sensual, probably going at it. The things you heard, the way they say “oh,” the way they said one another’s name. The way you’ve never heard their names. The way you’d never say their names. It comes back at odd times and with injustice. You’re reminded of it like some form of infection.
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