Don't give Mrs. Hillbilly Mom any lip. She has enough lip of her own. A plethora of lip, one might say, if one was wont to use the word plethora, and refer to oneself as "one."
I have a fat lip. A lip that could have its own show, My 600 Pound Lip. As lips go, mine needs to go on The Biggest Loser. I need to lose this inverted, lower-lip, last-trimester sextuplet-baby bump that appeared over the weekend. Oh, I'm sure this bump behemoth did not simply appear. I have a hunch that I had a little something to do with it sprouting full-bloat from just off-center, stage right.
For the life of me I cannot remember what I was up to, what I was chowing down on so overzealously that I bit my own lip like a crocodile chomping a divot out of a hippopotamus butt. Sure, maybe you've tried to masticate the inside of your cheek during a bout of gluttony. That's not pleasant, but it's not nearly so painful as biting a bit of tender flesh from your own bottom lip. INADVERTENTLY!
It's not like I go through my chewing life daintily nibbling the kernels off an inch-long ear of baby corn, like Tom Hanks in his white tux at the fancy buffet in BIG. I don't know why my incisors took it upon themselves to slice and dice a mouthful of food, rather than leave that undesignated task to the bicuspids. You'd think Mrs. HM has teeth like Bugs Bunny, gnashing her horizontal inner bottom lip like a crisp carrot pulled out of his furry invisible pocket.
I thought the wound was winding down, healing from the inside out, receding gradually each day. This morning, the raw, raised, pencil-eraser-size nodule was a mere shadow of itself. Until lunch. When I chewed through it while mincing a mouthful of leftover pizza.
It feels like this thing has its own zip code.