the badness coming out of me

Whenever I would develop a tiny sore where a taste bud used to be, my mother would explain that this was the badness coming out of me. I'm certain she meant this to be comforting, that this annoying little nub I couldn't keep from rubbing against my teeth was somehow cleansing. Instead, I have long felt disturbed to realize that I am, in fact, so full of badness that it erupts from my very being.

Today, apparently, I must be particularly foul, for the badness is again coming out of me. As I stimulate the strangely satisfying pain response that accompanies my compulsive torturing of my canker sore, I wonder is it because I cuss like a sailor? Or maybe because I still think bad thoughts about the neighbor who abducted my cat and left him to fend for himself outside the pound for a week? Or is this punishment for not expressing the proper amount of gratitude for my exceptionally happy life? Am I bad because I am not living up to my potential? Because I never went to grad school? Because I stopped writing the Christmas letter for my mother after she made unauthorized changes before publication? Or maybe this is because I once convinced my brother he was a hermaphrodite just so he would let me put barrettes in his hair?

As my tongue suffers the consequences of the shortcomings of my personality, I reflect on my opportunities for improvement. I could keep a cleaner house, pay more attention to my husband, make a phone call to a friend. This year I may even write that Christmas letter.

But in the meanwhile, I reach for the Anbesol because f@ck if this thing doesn't hurt.