Me and my nose

I’ve got a bump on my nose.
I never used to have one, it just appeared.
Last night I was walking in my house, and I noticed just how nice my kitchen door was. It was big and sturdy, and tall, with a protective feeling. But above all, it was quiet. I decided that it would be a good idea to give it a nice hard slam - a loud, satisfying slam which would release some of the stress of the day. So I did. But in my spontaneity I was not standing parallel to the door, in fact I was like so:

(sketch)

Therefore I happened to slam the door on myself, or rather, the side of my nose. It only lasted a second, but I heard a crunching sound and then I experienced an uncomfortable throbbing feeling. It hurt and I cried for a minute or so, until I remembered that I was alone and crying by oneself is foolish. So now I have a bump to the left of it, and when I look in the mirror I don’t immediately recognise myself.

I’ve always hated my nose. I always wanted to get plastic surgery on it, but I was young and unaware of the high prices of that nonsense. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not vain, and it’s not a bad nose really. It isn’t too short or too long, or pinched, or flattened across my face. But it does look like my mum’s nose. And if you don’t know my mum, or if you haven’t been disturbed by one, you won’t realise the significance of this.

My nose. The one thing I hate about myself and now I have a bump on it. It had to happen, I suppose. In a way, I like the bump. In a way, it feels as though some magnificent force has taken pity on me, and in life’s natural path has planted my want to slam that door. Now, I have a different nose. Now I am free.

I know the bump will go down soon, and that the bruise will heal. But I will still go out. Me and my nose. My mum’s nose, exposed to all the world.