The other day I stopped at the gas station to fill my tank. I promptly cried because it now costs me $35 to fill my tank. Some of you probably want to burn me at the stake for the last sentence, but you have to understand where I’m coming from. My first car, Karen the Continental, cost about $60 to fill. My new car, Sid the Hybrid, used to only cost $28. Perhaps I should be grateful that I’m still paying $25 less in gas, but I’m a whiny jerk so I cry.
As I got out of the car, a man was walking towards the store to pay for his gas. At first I only noticed him in my peripherals, but then something he did made me stare at him as though he were the second coming of Christ. This man, in front of God and everyone, stuck his index finger so far up his nose that I swear his watch disappeared. In my head I thought, ‘Just pick your nose, why don’t you?’
At least, I thought the words had stayed in my head.
They did not.
The words pulled a Wentworth Miller and escaped from my mouth like a jail cell.
Mr. Nose Picker heard me.
Then I felt like the world’s biggest Judgey McJudgerson because he gave me a look that was equal parts shock, anger, embarrassment, and timidity.
Perhaps it’s time for me to enlist the help of a caretaker since I obviously cannot function properly in society.