The Dentist

This is what happens when I procrastinate. I have fifteen minutes to write about the dentist. The freaking dentist!

I hate going to to the dentist. So much so, that I didn’t go to the dentist in about a half a dozen years. In hindsight, not so much all that smart. It resulted in cavities. Many, many cavities. I got to know my dentist well. All too well. I went back week after week after week. And then they (finally) said that my cavities were filled. And I did a happy dance. And thought about flossing more.

I thought about it. That has to count for something, right?

I think that my hatred of all things dental related comes from when I had my wisdom teeth pulled when I was 13. With only Novocain. By the quackiest quack whoever quacked for a living. Let’s just say that his waiting room was filled with a lot of people holding bloody bandages to their faces. And he used metal forceps to hold my mouth open. And then he sewed me up with cotton stitches.

You know what cotton does in warm, moist environments? It shrinks, that’s what it does. Those freaking things got tighter and tighter and tighter. I didn’t know that they were getting tighter. I just knew that my mouth was getting more and more ouchie. Ouchie! (that’s a technical term, btw) I found out about the whole cotton stitches of doooooom thing when my Dad’s dentist friend removed my stitches for me.

And he gasped in horror. 

At the cotton stitches of doooooooom. 

Did I mention that all of this took place over Christmas vacation?

There’s nothing like a Christmas dinner comprised entirely of mashed potatoes.

So, I’d say that I come by my dental hatred naturally.