The Joy of Picking
I speed through the automated toll station, letting up the gas pedal ever-so-slightly as the Nissan next to me eases too close to my lane. Absentmindedly, I pick at my left nostril with my pinkie, blading out a crusty booger that’s been tickling me all afternoon. The rocker switch clicks as I pull at it, the window whirrs down and lets in the rich smell of prairie burning; it is Spring and the farmers have just started blazing their fields. I flick the blob of crud toward the highway shoulder and feel right with the cosmos.
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