OK, this is going to be one of those extremely socially incorrect posts.
Anyone easily grossed out can leave now.
The thing is: it has been post-Polar-Vortex pollen season — that is to say, everything is happening at once — in the traditionally pollenacious Washington, D. C. area for over a week now, and despite the torrential rains which are at least not as bad thank Jeebus as what is going on in Pensacola, everyone’s sinuses are a battleground which make Hastings look like a kickball contest. I spent Monday in a vague trance state such that turning my head caused the room to continue revolving for several seconds afterward, owing to the seepage of congestion and inflammation from the cavities of my calvarium into my inner ear. The commencement of rainfall helped but not much.
So I am left contemplating the sensory homunculus (the irregular imprint of body structures on the sensory machinery of the brain), to wit, how is it that a booger measuring about three millimeters in diameter, give or take, feels about as significant an intrusion on your serenity as a brick under your butt? And why is it that the human pinky even cannot dislodge the little motherfucker on the first or second try and give your contemplative cerebration peace, much as the temple prostitute of antique times was reputed to cleanse the votary of distracting urges so that he could focus on the Divine?
We are such slaves to our biology. I had five victims lined up on the schedule, making it an endurance contest, I practically had to take the trash to the curb wearing an Aqualung, believe me, the extraction of that gargantuan booger was the high point of my day.