Ouch! Regret Hurts

I bit my tongue today. Not one of those unfortunate nicks that catches the tip and leaves me rubbing it ruefully against my inner cheek for the rest of the day, but a full, bare-toothed clamping of the tongue. My mouth filled quickly with blood and, trembling, I had to spit out the half-chewed remains of my croissant into a serviette. The agony silenced me mid-sentenced; apparently, the cadence of mastication and that of my articulation had slipped out of sync. My mother’s rule about speaking with my mouth full had been painfully vindicated. It was unfair. She only cautioned about the danger of hurting the sensibilities of polite company. Had she told me that I might inflict self-injury severe enough to bring tears to the eyes of a grown man, I might have listened.
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