About a month ago my old (recently fired) dentist stuck his needle o' novocaine into my whateverit'scalled nerve and scored a direct hit. My tongue still hurts 5 weeks later.
Last night watching the Emmys, my teeth hurt so much I darn near accompanied the opera star to the theme from Star Trek.
Anyway, that earlier dental visit inspired me to see a professional. Oops, I mean a Periodontist. He agreed that I have two teeth too many and that they won't make good piano keys, despite my flossing. However, sensing my nervousness, he referred me to another even more professional guy who dresses in scrubs and does facial reconstructions when he's not watching Nip/Tuck. Not that I am getting reconstructed, but just in case something goes wrong, his waiver of liability form is better than the others.
So, Friday I go under. Our deal is I won't be in the same room as the operation.
I was hoping that writing about it would be a form of catharsis, but it doesn't seem to be working out that way.
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