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August 17th, 2003 - Chimichanga Death March

It's Sunday, August 17th, 3:10 AM, and a chimichanga just attempted to murder me. I heated up two of them in the microwave, for 30 seconds less than I have been heating them in the past. Nevertheless, the hateful tortilla flapped splattertube was out for blood. I was concerned that I may have not cooked it enough; the outside felt lukewarm to the touch. I cut off a small piece with my fork, and slipped it into my willing mouth, unaware of the dangers that were to overcome me... the magma within took me for everything I had. I suffered a flashback of the last time I was raped by Mexican food. The time a scolding hot, whole bean had disjointed from the mass of a tasty burrito and somehow found itself attached to my lower wrist, clinging like a napalm leach to my delicate skin, forcefully penetrating my body heat like a magnifying-glass intensified sun spot centered on an unfortunate, euthanasia-pleading beetle. The time I went what seemed like half an hour before realizing this burning sensation afflicting my wrist was not going away, and was, in fact, growing worse by the second as the hidden, magical Chernobyl bean's perpetual heat engine burnt my epidermis at five times boiling point, a temperature I have named "absolute beanfucking".

But that's all besides the point. I shouldn't dwell on the past; I should focus on the present. And presently the liquid-fire bowels of a fantastic chimichanga had fused to the roof of my mouth and surrounding gums. The heat was so intense such that I could not discern at first whether this shocking assault on my senses was a neurological interpretation of the "cold" extreme or the "hot" extreme. I sorted out the confusion as Lucifer himself materialized before my corneas instructing me in the exact manner I was to use my tongue to impregnate this seething blob of the afterlife to bring about the four horsemen. Causing the bones of my inner ear to shake directly from within, Lucifer silently voiced his intentions, laying down the verbal foundation to the galactical apocalypse, first in English, then in Spanish, followed by an unfamiliar language that I can only describe as John Candy's shape-shifting cerebral cortex communicating through a platinum-plated garden hose. I hopelessly attempted to juggle this mass of pain about my mouth, as to relieve the heat-stressed cell desecration from one side to another, in an effort to prevent any heat buildup, thereby avoiding grotesque internal deformations. My desperate plight only made matters worse as my tongue drove the hellcheese deeper into my state of being...

And then it was gone. Like a battlefield of weeping children, squealing pigs, and utter chaos swept away, presenting a clean slate of peace and self-reflection. The pain, stress, and panic: gone. Where did it go? Damned if I knew. I was now floating through heaven, swimming through flavor country. A particular spot on my gums was ballooning up and starting to feel smooth and rubbery, but I still tasted chimichanga and felt no pain, so it was good. This little pocket, encompassing some weird form of alien saliva produced from within my gums or possibly my molars, grew into a mammoth blister, completely destroying the mood. A night with a shredded beef chimichanga is an affair to remember, but my mind was now elsewhere. I pushed and squeezed my tongue against this odd growth to no avail. However, mere seconds later, this transmutational, inverted saliva punch-bowl cyst entity extended it's long, fibrous, outer-dimensional phantom tentacles to assimilate the matter of my person in its entirety, combined with the raw bursting flavor of the chimichanga, through the spacetime portal ripped open by my sensational taste buds; and it grew. It became long overdue for a popping good time, and my tongue faithfully came to the service of the holy gumblister. If a blister is defeated by being popped and torn open by force, then the fluid that flowed out was likely a mix of life force and tears.

This is all well and good, just a freak tragedy in the grand scheme of chimichanga... or was it? The previous day I had almost pierced my tongue with my own incisor while enjoying another such shredded beef chimichanga. Two freak incidents in two consecutive days? No, these events had long since been set into motion. This is evolution. This is a defense mechanism. Their ability to bend space and warp time, reinforced with their ruthless, mind-pounding, telepathic transduction vessels forging new boundaries to the great expanses of the multiverse, can override the instincts and intuition of the masses. Their empire is one that lay dormant. For a while.

Two days later, I bit my tongue, yet again. While eating a chimichanga, yet again. This time, clipping the side with one of my molars and tearing a small piece of the surface of my tongue off. A small flap, if you will. Flap, as in: I had to use a mirror to find out exactly where on my tongue this dangling piece of tongue was hanging off of so I could head on in there and finish the job. Tearing off pieces of my tongue is not really what I like to do in my free time, and after this experience, I think it's safe to say I will not be planning any Friday nights around such a project. Now, if I remember my tongue charts correctly, this piece came off of the part of my tongue that tastes sourness. Whether this will hamper my ability to taste the pure brilliance of sour or not, only time will tell. I sure as hell know I can taste bitterness as well as I ever could; I've been tasting it all week.