Phlegm

I wish it were more socially acceptable to talk about the sheer volume of stuff that comes out of my nose when I'm at the end of a cold.

It's marvelous, really. I've seen enough cross sections of the human skull to know roughly how much space is in the sinuses, and something isn't adding up.

Unfortunately, we can't talk about these things. I do try to be fairly discreet about my bodily functions, and I don't have to show anyone anything or talk about what color things are, but after expelling everything that ever happened from my nostrils, there's just this tremendous sense of accomplishment and I just want to tell someone.

Maybe my family is just cursed with lots of phlegm. When my mom was in high school, she was sitting behind this really cute guy who turned around to talk to her just as she was in the midst of one of those volcanic sneezes. I feel like this is going to happen to me. I'll be in my third consecutive minute of nose-blowing that rivals the sound of seventy-six trombones and the man of my dreams will walk in.

He would most likely be disgusted and appalled, or, you never know, he might be like, "You have a sinus infection? Tell me all about it!" And then I'll know that it's really true love. I think in this scenario, the man of my dreams is a Jewish otolaryngologist.

We would have the most beautiful, nearsighted, valetudinarian children.