I'll never forget Halloween when I was seven years old. After a night of picking up the goods going door-to-door in the neighborhood, I immediately dump my new stash out on the living room floor. A Baby Ruth first. I take those first delicious bites. Suddenly, a sharp pain blitzkriegs my tongue. Next thing I know, a geyser of blood is shooting from my mouth, splashing my Donald Duck costume, turning the carpet into a Jackson Pollock. Mom screams, dad calls 911, I pull from the gooey goodness a razor blade which has just slashed up my mouth.