Issue 8, Semester 1, 2019
I caught you picking your nose! I saw it. You saw me saw it. You passed it off as a vigorous nose rub, but we both know. You had your finger straight up your honker as if you were trying to finger your most lubricated orifice like the world would end tomorrow. What did you find in there, padawan? Did you hit gold? Was it one of those hard nuggets that kind of hurts to dislodge? A wet gooey but satisfying bit to pull out? Or did I schnoz-block you before the fruits of your labour were actualised? You are not alone. If anyone takes the time to watch people engrossed in their own work in public spaces they too will behold the fallacy of privacy: where people think they’re in their own bed at night, winding down, no one cleaning the pool outside the window who might catch them in the act. It’s like searching for shooting stars: you don’t see them unless you’ve been properly looking for a while – and then WHAM the stars are flying around like rice at a wedding – or looking at ants in the grass – you thought you were sitting on a terra nullius patch of grass to claim with your chubby derriere but then, upon closer inspection, you’re actually just a colonial glob who has squished a thousand beautiful and harmless bugs with your stupid whomper. Nose pickers are everywhere. It starts with a sniffle, a little nostril wiggle, a finger jiggle that just can’t be tamed… I’m not here to snot-shame anyone though. As Lilly Allen sings, ‘everyone’s at it’. Please, by all means, pick away… but know that these hills have eyes.
S. Nott is a Third Year JD Student