I never blow my nose. Never. I sniff. Repeatedly, relentlessly, and irritatingly. I was in the library today, sniffing away as I slaved over a copy of The Wanderer (because having a painfully high blood sugar makes even Old English tiresome occasionally), and the student opposite me offered me a tissue. I faffed about, knowing full well I wasn’t going to use it, but eager to not reject his kindness, while being aware of the fact that this was supposed to be a quick, ‘here, you can shut up now’ kind of functional social interaction, not the sort of drawn-out one I’ll bitch about in a blog post containing more subordinate clauses than kick-ass songs from The Bloodhound Gang. So I took the tissue, and left it on the desk, ignoring it, and pissing off everyone around me, and especially the one across from me whose kindness had been spurned in the most dismissive of manners.
But I’ve never got blowing one’s nose; the idea makes sense, sure, to generate a big blowing noise to compensate for a reduction in numerous smaller sniffles half an hour later, but the mechanics of it have always confused me. I don’t ‘blow’ so much as ‘wipe’, and I can’t ever seem to expel enough snot to prevent me from sniffing fifteen seconds later, so I make the big blowy noise, and get none of the longer-term benefits.
For what it’s worth, I sniff and wipe endlessly, which decimates my tissue supplies and gives off the vibe that I’m an oversized man-baby incapable of self-preservation on the level of basic convenience and hygiene; Heaven forfend we let him into a classy social scene, or introduce to him complex interpersonal relationships or contractual responsibilities! But screw you, I was being an oversized man-baby in the UCL library, and I’ll take a particularly annoying case of the sniffles if I can indulge in such literary badassery.