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The Angry Nostril by Mistress Bernadette Ulsamer St. Claire

 

My nostril’s angry. It is. It’s pissed off. My nostril’s furious and it needs to talk. It needs to talk about all this shit. It needs to talk to you. I mean what’s the deal? An army of people out there thinking up ways to torture my poor-ass, gentle, loving nostril…Spending their days constructing psycho products and nasty ideas to undermine my nasal cavity.

All this shit they’ve constantly trying to shove up us, pierce us with, clean us up! Like nasal spray, what the hell is that? A shot of burning fluid squirting up to my brain?! Why can’t they find a way to make it not taste like two week old acidic orange juice mixed with used mouthwash. As soon as my nostril smells it, it goes into shock. It says, Forget it. It closes up. You need to work with the nostril, introduce it to things, prepare the way.

And stop shoving rings through it. Nostrils do not need decoration or more holes. Its not supposed to be a colander for snot. It had enough trouble keep the snot from coming out the two openings that are supposed to be there.

Then there are doctor visits. Who thought them up? Why do I need to completely undress and wear a paper towel over myself to have them check what’s already exposed for easy access? And why the flashlight all up there like Nancy Drew working against gravity and then the swabs they take, trying to poke my brain. My nostril’s angry about those visits. It gets defended weeks in advance. It shuts down won’t relax. Don’t you hate that when they try to tell you to “Relax your nose, relax your breathing.” Why? My nostril is not stupid. Relax so you can shove a flashlight and 10 inch cotton swab up inside it?

Nostrils need comfort, they’re supposed to be loose and wide. Make something to give them pleasure, but no one is ready to see a nostril enjoying itself sneezing whenever it feels like and left alone. But society wouldn’t be able stand seeing all those energized, not-taking-shit, hot, happy nostrils.

If my nostril could talk, it would talk about itself like me; it would talk about other nostrils; it would do nostril impressions. It would throw nostril dinner parties.

My nostril once helped me blow out a giant loogie but it thought it would be doing more then that. It’s not. Now it wants to travel, doesn’t want a lot of company. It wants to read and know things and get out more. It wants to go deeper. It’s hungry for depth. It wants kindness. It wants change. It wants silence and freedom and gentle kisses and warm liquids and deep touch. It wants chocolate. It wants to yell. It wants to stop being angry. It wants, it wants, it wants. My nostril wants everything.

 

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