On tongues

"I just stick my tongue out because I hate smiling in pictures. 

It's so awkward. It looks so cheesy."

— Miley Cyrus

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I can't clean my tongue enough. Every morning and (most) evenings I give it a good, vigorous wash with the toothbrush. I scrape and I scrape. I rinse, reload on toothpaste and repeat. Yet still, those bits of beige persist. 

What must I do to get the perfect red tongue I so desperately want? 

I want it to look like a ripe strawberry—NOT like our old comforter, lumpy from the tumbledryer and covered in tea stains.  

Listerine works wonders. It may not get me the red I want, but a lengthly gargle of the poison will leave my tongue a nice pale pink. Still, it doesn't last long. A few hours later and ol' tonguey will be back to that disgusting khaki hue it prefers. 

Image by Duncan Kenneth Winter via Wikimedia Commons

Speaking of tongues, it's best not to think about yours too much. Just like with breathing and blinking, overthinking it—asking too many meddling questions—is enough to prompt a full-on panic attack. 

There are certain aspects of our biology that we should just accept at face value. Thinking too hard about that thick, slimy, spatulate muscle (the human body's strongest!) is not a road you want to go down. But sometimes you just can't help it!

GOD, what's the point of it anyway? When I'm not using it to propel globs of chewed up pizza down my gullet, what does it do all day? What's it up to? All it does is sit there, clinging to the roof of my mouth like one of those plastic bubble swimming pool covers. Yet, it doesn't ever fully relax. If it did, I'd swallow it. I think. That could just be a rumour. Either way, it's a horrific thought. 

Also, I get that it's attached to the back of my throat. But to what exactly? Where does it start? 

AAAAAAH!

Margaret