Marcel Winatschek

Cardboard Kisses

My theories, in ascending order of culpability: I burned my tongue badly last week. Plausible. I occasionally smoke things that aren’t tobacco. More plausible. And then there was the time I snacked directly from a packet of pure spaghetti flavor enhancer and essentially acid-etched the lining off my tongue. Yeah. That’s probably the one.

Optimistically, this is liberation. I can lick whatever disgusting surface presents itself and feel nothing. The artery-clogging kebab I’d normally inhale without thinking? Zero appeal now—doesn’t taste like anything anyway. Cola, water, same difference. The body streamlined into a machine that no longer cares what you put in it.

Except kisses now taste like cardboard. Oral anything—cardboard. My strawberry yogurt—cardboard. You can never win with me, I know. Where does one even find a tongue specialist?