shouldn't things taste better?

The tastebud from Three Mile Island has appeared again. Every once in a while, I have a rogue tastebud that's simply not content to be one of the little guys. It happens about every three months or so--some smart-aleck tastebud gets the big idea of becoming a glorified tongue zit.

I drive down the road sticking my tongue out in the rearview mirror trying to identify the bud of dissention with no luck, despite the fact that it feels like a giant pencil eraser that's been eroded by caustic stomach juices. Nevermind that.

Truth be known, it's sore because I won't quit playing with it. I keep rolling my tongue around it, pinching it and sucking on it (get your mind out of the gutter). Or it could be there's an angry uprising of the adjacent little tastebuds because they are jealous of the obvious individuality of the one who risen above them all. Or even more likely, the skinny buds are making fun of the big bud. That, my friends, is discrimination.

So, I think if I am going to be plagued by a giant asteroid of a tastebud things should be tasting a whole lot better. But they don't. I keep trying though.