Yow. I had gum surgery last week. A Herculean display of drilling and scraping and god-only-knows-what-else my otherwise pretty, proper periodontist was doing in there after she coolly injected my entire being with enough novacaine to freeze the student debt and then sliced into my mouth like a ravenous carnivore into a blue steak.
It was some kind of party. Kicked off with a triple salchow of ibuprofen and a sweat-laced power-walk; from the mean streets to the Palm Beach dental chair where the good doc slipped me a pink iPod to drown out the sound, but only succeeded in rotting my teeth with her easy-listening play-list: a sugar-laced tribute to Grammy-worthy mediocrity. There is no way you can play that shit loud, I suddenly obsessed, and my brain took off, consumed by my specialist’s questionable musical taste and words that sound like scrape (scour and grate). I got so damn busy I forgot all about the gouging drill and my crimson blood on pretty peach scrubs. Give the surgeon with the magnified eyes and ambidextrous hands- four stars! I’ve got a problematic mouth, she cares for me, what else is there I say? I’m in love.
I get props of my own from my regular dentist who tells me I’m a good (girl) patient with a well-behaved tongue. Apparently, for those who work in the oral orifice biz, the human tongue always gets in the way. After a week of soft food, I chew on that.
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