Good Intentions That Get Biological

I don't remember how, but I stumbled across quuf's journal. If you haven't seen it, go look when you're done here. It's good. I'm way jealous.

I wrote to him. I said, "You pick better words than I do."

Which is totally true. He's not like those awful people with bad cases of said bookism, whose characters opine, rejoin, give air to their feelings, or do anything other than say something. He just picks the right fucking word. It's pretty clear he isn't riffling through a thesaurus, either; he knows them. Words like untonsured, apotheosis, and swain. I had to look that shit up. That's awesome.

He wrote back, and disagreed with me, nicely. Then he said, "I bet I'm the better nose-picker, tho'."

To which I have to disagree. I'm way better at that. I could take it to the nationals, I'm so good.

I had to be. When I was twelve, I shot up to six feet tall. Everyone suddenly got a good view, and they all told me what they could see up there. They were never gentle about it, either. "Gross, Keller! You've got a total honkin' booger. Blow it, dude! Fuck!" As a result, I quickly became obsessed with the contents of my nose, and also became quite adept at artfully, efficiently dealing with whatever I found therein.

So you can all thank me now.