thirteen ways

“I knew a violinist at Oberlin who picked his nose obsessively. He always practiced in the same room in Robertson, and used to wipe his boogers off on the wall. He would do it morning, noon and night. This went on for months and years, and pretty soon he had covered most of the wall with boogers. Totally. Disgusting.”

“So it was his own little shrine of boogers.”

“Yeah, a booger shrine.”

“OK, eighth blackbird, you’re on!”