Note: This is an older post, so the events and references contained within are from the past, not now, so behave yourselves accordingly. Enjoy.
Dearest Friends, Casual Acquaintances, and Past Lovers Who Pine for Me Endlessly (at least in my imagination):
Some of you are aware that my tormented soul was tormented even further by an unplanned (and unbudgeted) root canal a mere three days ago. (If you are not aware, all you have to do is review my recent missive wherein I whined about such by clicking on the “previous over-sharing” button which should appear at the end of this post.) Of course, if you click on said button, this will be an admission of guilt that you have missed one of my posts, and there may or may not be fallout in our tenuous digital relationship. The blogging world is a fickle planet, and the slightest hint of insurrection can lead to accusations of malfeasance and questionable couture choices.
I have no idea why I typed that last sentence, with its overt drama and lack of provable substance or worth. Oh wait, yes I do. In the elusive previous post which you may or may not have perused, I mentioned that I was given tantalizing drugs to help me recover from the fact that my oral cavity had been violated by a cadre of dental technicians hell-bent on ripping things out of my mouth. (“He’s not bleeding enough. Somebody go find that rusted bone-saw so we can get bonus points!”)
I’m blaming said drugs for what transpired a few hours ago.
Partner and I were firmly ensconced on separate couches in front of the Altar of the Omniscient TV, positions we often assume because our lives are barren and yet we don’t have the fortitude to better ourselves in any way. We were working our way through the copious selections that had piled up in The Sacred DVR when I made a poor decision. In the addictive midst of an episode of “The Dead Files”, I had a sudden, overwhelming desire to consume low-healthy, high-fructose candy that would not benefit my life in any measurable way. Because we are nutritional heathens, there were roughly 700 options within our domicile from which I could choose.
I opted for one of those small, snack-size boxes of “Dots”. For those of you who are unfamiliar, “Dots” are hardened-gelatin globules that essentially resemble those domed gumdrops that one is supposed to destroy in order to succeed in a “Pac-Man” video game, a reference point for those of you who were actually alive when said video game was all the rage. (I fully understand that such an audience is dwindling, but I trust that a few of you will make the connection before we all totter off into infirmity.)
Since the mini-box only had a storage capacity of five or so, I felt confident that I could successfully navigate my way toward a sugar coma. Granted, I could only chew on one side of my mouth, what with the horrid after-effects of the root-canal on the other side still sending out warning signals, but I’d been to this rodeo before and my confidence was high. Surely, I could persevere.
This proved to be yet another lie I whisper to myself in the vain hope of ignoring reality.
I consumed three of the five Dots without a care in the world, smacking and chawing away with the fortitude of one who has eaten things he shouldn’t for decades. I was tender with my mastication, delicate even, exhibiting a lover’s finesse as my taste buds reveled in the glory of pointless sugar triggering happy synapses. On the fourth Dot, developments went awry.
I quickly surmised that there was something a bit recalcitrant in that fourth Dot. Something which did not care to be consumed. Sadly, after a bit of dramatic choking and spitting into my hand, I found myself staring at a crown that had previously been anchored in my gumline. Interestingly, said crown was not the temporary crown that was perched atop the root-canal of three days yore. Of course not, because my life is one continual stream of dumbass choices. My glucose gluttony had resulted in an older, supposedly-permanent crown becoming unmoored on what should have been the safe side of my mouth.
Such fresh hell.
I alerted Partner to the situation, and he (after waiting until the next commercial break so he could pause the DVR in an appropriate place) raced to retrieve a mostly empty tube of tooth cement that he still had on hand after his own bit of dental truculence. After a round of squeezing and squirting (complicated by me having to figure out exactly how the liberated crown was meant to position itself in my naughty mouth), things were back in order. Albeit temporarily, as it was now obvious that I would soon be making a return visit to my dentist, wherein I would have to confess my sins.
For now, I am unable to chew with any admirable degree on either side of my mouth.
There is a single Dot remaining in the snack-size box, a tiny receptacle which I have placed on the kitchen table as a warning sign that I cannot be trusted. Of course, said harbinger is essentially pointless, as I’ve already proven that I might be a bit lacking in the Common-Sense World Cup. Partner is surprised every morning that I managed to make it through the night.
I would imagine that I’ll be having a lot of soup for the next few days until I can get an appointment with the Hitler Dentist. In the interim, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep tonight to the sounds of the Final Dot laughing maniacally in his little box…
As mentioned, previously published. Slight changes made, but this one was already a sound testament concerning the unsound state of my mind, so there was really no reason to mess with it too overtly.
Categories: My Life