Mnemonic mnostrils

Apologies for being behind on the updating. I have been extraordinarily busy with various real-world concerns, such as washing my hair.

On Sunday nights I take the train home from work, and while doing so tonight I ended up, by chance, sharing the train ride with a pretty girl who works in my office. She got on the train one stop south of me, and by that time I already had my nose buried in David Brock’s Blinded by the Right which I bought this past week at the comic book store (although, as I discovered, it is not a comic book at all!), and if she had not said my name (Lucas) I may not have ever noticed she was sitting there, one seat over.

So, instead of reading about a man’s journey from liberal social values to neoconservative propagandizing and back again, I had a nice conversation with a person whom I did not know very well. As it turned out, she was getting off the train one stop south of my stop, so we talked the whole time, about such subjects as college majors, getting into classes, putting off writing papers until the last minute, things that every college student can relate to. Her boyfriend, as it turned out, majored in the same thing I did when I was an undergrad twenty years ago, so I briefly walked down memory lane in that regard. All told, it was a fine conversation, considering how awkward train conversations can sometimes be.

It seems wholly unremarkable. But consider this: as we continued to speak I became increasingly aware that an extremely long hair was plummeting in and out of my right nostril with every nasal breath I took. I could feel its boogery wispiness dancing against my upper lip, and it required focused concentration to avoid drawing attention to it by doing something obvious such as swatting it away or batting at it as a kitten would a strand of yarn, or, with my index finger, shoving it back up into my nose, where the other, shorter hairs just might grab it and prevent its return. I did my best to ignore it and continued with the conversation.

If she noticed, she did not let on; and really, I do not care whether she did or not. Perhaps if she did, it would make the conversation that much more memorable. I know it will be memorable for me, as every time a long nose hair brushes against my lip, or tongue, or chin, or sternum, or what-have-you, I will remember this conversation.

And I will repeatedly remember this conversation.

Because I am cursed.

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