A SOURed Relationship.

Dear Tongue,

Oh sweet, innocent, unwitting Tongue! I have to apologize for the way I acted tonight. After the can of pineapple and box of peas appetizer, I forced you to eat that sorry excuse for Mexican food. It's been almost 24 years, this partnership we have. And I know we've had our ups and downs. Salmon, for instance. Meatloaf, mushrooms. The list goes on, I know. But tonight, I went too far. I let my thoughts get all jumbled up in the mix.

Why I thought making a quesadilla with only beans and mozzarella was going to taste anywhere near good is really not on the table for discussion. In theory, someone (not me) could make that a fanTASTEical delight. The real question is why did I think adding a shit ton of garlic and black pepper was going to make up for the fact I have no salsa? Tongue, I don't know what to tell you. There's just no excuse or explanation for what I've done to you.

How will I ever repay you? Is there any forgiveness left in your buds? I know I don't need to remind you of our past. I know I don't need to recall memories of ketchup soaked french fries or all that pudding I ate on Sunday because of my sore throat. I'm sure you're aware of how often I order that salad you love from Corner Cafe (twice a week minimum). And I certainly don't need to rehash all those birthdays and holidays and various other special occasions that necessitate a slice of cake. Or two. And of our date night ritual, I know I only need to say those three little words: Digiorno, Cherry Garcia. I don't need to talk about these things because you already know what makes us meant for each other, what makes us work.

Next time I try to talk myself out of sliding into bed with a pudding cup to sing us to sleep to, instead, make a 'meal' out of what isn't moldy in the fridge, I'll remember this blog. I will. With you and me, pudding will always win, from now until forever.

I love you Tongue.

xoxo, M