Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I Need Dental Wax
My tongue is being tortured by this filling that's been torqued into some sort of shrapnel. Funny, I don't remember a grenade going off in my mouth. The dentist tried to get me to let him do something with it the other day and I stupidly told him it would have to wait a few months because I felt it would be harrowing or something. So they scheduled me (at my request) for fucking May. What was I thinking? I swear I'm not a masochist. I'm not. Little did I know my tongue was secretly being tortured all night. I thought it was infected but then he pointed out the redness is where the tongue is resting against the flared metal mess. I put my finger in there and it feels like Freddy Kruger's fucking hand reaching out. I'm hoping they sell dental wax at WAL-MART, as I have to go there for my damn prescriptions anyway. Lee thinks this is improbable beyond belief but I also found a filling repair kit there I bought for some future dark day (it was only like two dollars) and he didn't expect that to be there either. Please be there, dental wax. My fallback plan is this. I'm actually still visualizing the white plastic case of dental wax I used as a kid when I had braces. I can see it at my Mom's house in my old bedroom. I'm strange about keeping things. Wax can't go old or get moldy or anything, right? It's in a sealed case anyway, that snaps shut tight. You could probably use dental wax that's a hundred years old and be fine. I'll sterilize it in some salt water or something. But maybe Wally World sells the shit. The Viking doctor surprised me and renewed the Synthroid rx without a fight. I was sure he was spoiling for another one. Oh that reminds me to go leave a Thank You on his answering machine. I don't know why I do it. He hates me. And I'm not fond of him at this point. Kickboxers all love themselves to death. They do. They're like bodybuilders. They use the same photo on their Booty List call ad as appears in the Sex Offenders Registry. And think nothing of it. They're that bumptious. LINEA ALBA would be a good name for a pretentious French book. And I have to leave the Thank You for the receptionist who went to the trouble of doing the actual work. More than for him. I don't keep him because he's built and sort of sexy (and homophobic). I don't. It's funny, because on the office answering machine he sounds waaaaay more like a fairy than I do. He does. You should hear the message. You can hear his asshole pulsating for a carrot or something.