I’m Disgusting

Though I can switch on the charm at a dinner party and woo your parents or entertain your friends, the fact remains that I am just as deft at repelling people with my gross habits.

You may think that you have the occasional phlegm and that it’s weird and icky but I can guarantee, you don’t know real phlegm.

Constant. For years. I hack up chartreuse throat goblins like every five minutes. Along with it comes vomitous noises. So I’m almost vomiting like every five minutes. I’ve been to doctor after doctor and they are all baffled.

People always think I’m sick. They make “yuck” faces as they tell me to go home and drink dimetapp. But this is just how it is. Always. I can’t stop the phlegm. It wakes up my roommates, repulses my friends, and frightens old women and children.

New York City’s streets and sidewalks are coated with a thin film of my mucus.

Trite, condescending reactions are always a welcome bestowal:

Thanks, lady. As I was involuntarily spewing my entrails out onto the pavement, my true intentions were to attract a lover.

Which reminds me of an incident that occurred about two weeks ago.

I was trundling down the boulevard on a warm and pretty night with my index finger lodged fittingly up my left nostril. I was wiggling about, trying to unhinge the boogery devil from my septum:

I turned my head slightly and noticed that RYAN GOSLING was right next to me, curiously staring at my gold mining.

I pretended not to notice him as I quickened the pace of my walking and turned the corner on the wrong street.

Yeah. I picked my nose in front of Ryan Gosling.



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