Raging Dad

I have this sore spot inside my left nostril that just kills. Every year, when the summer’s warmth begins to fade and the cooler weather approaches, it opens up with a yawn as if eagerly greeting the day with a toothy smile. Just when I am ready to bid farewell to the smells of summer—charcoal and cut grass—and welcome the scents of rain and moss and the fireplace, that sore spot destroys the smooth intake of breath like a nose full of salt water.

Photo by David Shankbone, courtesy Wikipedia.

Each morning when I wake, the siren song of that sore spot calls to me and I am powerless to stop myself from digging into that thing. It hurts to the point that I’ll often have tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. My finger will quickly remove the excess dust and dried mucus that accumulates in the night. That fucking little sore spot. Is that a scab covering it this morning? Is that a pesky booger? It doesn’t really matter, ’cause that thing has got to go no matter how bad it hurts. Once I get that thing out, I can’t really even tell if it is skin or snot; all I know is that my finger is dirty, my nose is bloody and I am pissed at myself for not leaving it alone.

Then again, it’s kind of comforting to have that spot to focus on. It’s a simple little project, really. Sure it hurts, but it’s a simple pain; it’s cause is clear. I understand it and I figure I can just stop picking at it if I want. But mostly, I’m like whatever, I’m going after that thing today.

I mean, doesn’t every guy have that little spot in his nostril? That tiny little wound that will wake you up if you turn your face into your pillow just right and totally ruin that awesome dream you were having about that killer sandwich and the stacks of Beatles remastered CDs that you totally can afford to buy because you have a fucking million dollars and no one will make you feel bad for spending the money on Beatles CDs that really ought to be spent on swimming lessons for the twins except that you forgot to wake your wife up to call in on the morning that the community recreation district starts taking reservations for the aforementioned swimming lessons because you thought you were being a nice guy but really because of your actions the spaces filled up and now they will either be killed by the undertow or shamed by classmates in the swimming pool because they have to cling to the side of the pool like monkeys but really that’s a moot point because they’ll already get their asses kicked and be recluses because they’ll be targets for bullies for the way they pick their noses in public after learning that it is “appropriate behavior” because their dad is stubborn and selfish and is always picking at the goddamn sore spot in his nose.

You’ve got that sore spot too, don’t you fella? I knew it. It’s nice to know I’m not alone. Maybe I’ll learn how to leave it alone someday so I can enjoy the smell of that lovely breeze.

Song of the day: “Ocean Breathes Salty,” by Sun Kil Moon (Modest Mouse cover).

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Filed under: raging thoughts | Tagged: nostril, dry air, sore