MOUTHFUL OF MISERY

Pictured: The largest and most painful cluster of mouth ulcers I've ever experienced.

Some people are born with dashing good looks, a bottomless pool of creative skill, or even superior intelligence. Me? My story is different. I was seemingly dealt a hand of bent and tattered playing cards dealt from an entirely different deck (Possibly Beezlebub's personal deck?). You see, since I can remember (i.e. my whole damn life), I've been cursed with mouth ulcers. Eww. I know, disgusting right? Sure. When I talk about this with anyone, they usually grace me with the widely intelligent and moronically blatant response: "That's a form of herpes you know." Their face is usually scrunched up as they say it, and a look of disgust wells up in their eyes. Sure motherfucker, it's herpes. Great job. I'm sure your mother is proud of you; all that hard-earned money spent on schooling you and your sharp-as-a-spoon brain. Collect your prize at the door and please don't return.

Sure it may be a form of herpes, but I've been battling these bitches since I was a youngster. It's not like I'm some hobo who goes around sucking on loose change, snacking on urinal cakes, or randomly licking things that most people wouldn't pick up unless wearing a hazmat suit. Nope, I don't. Truth be told, I'm a fairly cleancut fella who just happens to have been dealt a stale, mold-covered misfortune cookie by the man above (or below... nevermind, scratch the God reference).

Last week though, I woke up to find that a colossal batch (yes, a batch) of ulcers was forming on the inside of my bottom lip. This is rather odd. Usually one ulcer pops up, then creates the perfect party environment and subsequently invites a group of its friends to set up shop and tear holes in my lip or cheek. But this, this was abnormal.

This all occurred while I was on a trip for work, a trek to Vancouver. My last night in town I drank a bit much, came back to the hotel and fell asleep (yes, I'm a wild man). Before I went to sleep, I had not one single ulcer in my filth-ridden cake hole. However, when I woke up, I had this fucking constellation of ulcerated masses on my lower lip, teeming with pain.

"How did it get there?" you may be wondering. I was thinking the same thing. That's when I recalled the night before, the alcohol and its wonderful numbing effect. Well, I used to think it was wonderful. After countless Heinekens and a flurry of Tequilla (To-kill-ya) shots, I was feeling rather OKAY, but a little tired. I had that nice tingley/numb feeling that you sometimes get after drinking whiskey. You know, that feeling when your skin seems impenetrable (to bricks, mortar, people's jaw bones), like some sort of force field is encompassing your body?

Well, it seems I must have been chewing on the inside of my lip as I slept that night. What did I care, I couldn't feel anything. I recall the iron taste of my own blood, the somewhat shredded skin stuck in my teeth. But the rest of the memory got misplaced during sleep, thrown out with the rest of the nocturnal trash.

The only evidence of this fleeting memory is my big puffy bottom lip -- the one that gets in the way when I eat, drools on its own accord, and winks at passersby as I desperately try to keep it tucked in my mouth. Co-workers stare at it, kind of like they're waiting for it to perform, bust out in song like Michigan J. Frog or some shit. No friends, these ulcers aren't the fun kind, they're not entertainers. Oh wait, no ulcers are fun.

Damn you minion-of-evil-who-created-mouth-ulcers! Here's a proposition: We'll meet in Hell and I'll arm wrestle you like Sylvester Stallone in the classic film Over The Top. And when I win, I'll get to drill holes in your bottom lip with a salt-tipped DeWalt hammer drill. Deal? I didn't think so.