Picking Noses

So I was writing along, shooting for my daily word count in a dramatic scene where a woman had a terrible accident. A doctor approaches her, and in that heartfelt moment of horror and compassion, he thought he could pick out her nose.
Argh!
It's not what I meant, not really! The good doctor could identify the structure of her nose from the surrounding mass of mangled flesh. But how wordy is that?
Ah, how can writing be so alluring and yet so tortuous? How can I love it so?
Why do you love the things you love?

You Stink, Idiot!

by Shirley Bahlmann
When my nine-year-old Michael asked me to write a note for him, I was a little distracted. "Mom, please write 'You Stink Idiot'," he said.
I started scribbling as quickly as I could, "YOU STINK..." Then I stopped and looked at Michael. "What was the last part?" I asked.
He stared at the paper for a moment. "Mom, why did you write that?" he asked.
"You told me to."
"No, I said, 'Please write use sink'."
"Use sink?"
"Yeah, the one upstairs that Dad fixed. I want people to know they can use the sink."
"Then what was the last part?" I asked.
Patiently, he repeated, "Use sink. It's fixed."
"OH!" I cried, laughing. "I thought you said something else."
He regarded me with his solemn green eyes, then said slowly, "I'll get you another piece of paper."