To the hot chick who saw me picking my nose: Who the fuck do you think you are? Who are you to judge me, you scrunchy-wearing witch? I looked over, and your face oozed pretension and disgust. My first thought was, "Oh no, now she won't want to sleep with me!" I pulled my finger out, feeling nervous and apprehensive and sad. That look you had, it was as if you'd seen a corpse. But after you drove off, I began to think about the situation, and... you don't own me. YOU DON'T OWN ME, YOU BITCH!

I like picking my nose! It feels good! I get a lot of my best thinking done when I'm digging for gold, and I should be able to do it in my own car, on my way to Safeway for toothpaste and Cheerios, as much as I want! The Constitution gives me the right to pick my nose without persecution. But you were probably too busy in school planning your wedding to know that. You think because you have 10 different shampoos and a toe ring for every occasion, you can spew your standards onto other people? Fuck off! (But, if you do want to sleep with me, that'd be cool.)