There are two types of people in the world: those that see a scab on their body and leave it alone so it can heal properly, and those that pick.

I my friends am a picker.  I have unnecessary scars all over my body from noticing a scab, knowing that if I pick it I will probably make it bleed, and do it anyway.  Every time.

And of course, I have spawned a picker.

The Munch has these bug bites on her legs that haven’t healed in weeks because of this habit.  Whenever she feels inclined, she will just have a seat and dig into her skin like it’s a Zen Meditation.

“Munch don’t! Stop!  Don’t do it!”

“Mamma I am picking.”

“I know Munch! Stop doing it! Quit it!”

“Nooooooooooooo.”

And then she will run from me to pick in private.  Sometimes she will come up to me with bloody fingernails and inform me proudly “Mamma, I was picking.”  Yeah… I got that from your vampire hands.

So what is this compulsion?  What unites us pickers from the rest of the world that has a normal relationship to semi-open wounds?  Is it that the people who feel compelled to pick are more interested in the most brutal processes of self-examination?  To uncover the innards of what we are really made of?  Is it a philosophical quest to expose every particle possible in a feeble attempt to understand how we work?  Is the picking a metaphor for hypercritical personal analysis?  The intentionally inflicted pain serves as a reminder to examine every impulse, emotion, or motive?

Or maybe we are just slightly demented and gross?