Under the Porch

I don't do dentistry well.

Tantamount phobia, dentistry is my least favorite activity in the world. I hate the sound of drills, the echo of drills in my head, the injection of Novocaine, (or whatever the hell it is), the clatter of instruments on trays, the touching of my teeth and face.

I elected to have two crowns put in today, because the time is coming when we'll have no dental insurance. When that ends, well, we're on our own, and that means "screw you, live with pain and teeth needing care."

At least now I will be able to chew on the right side of my mouth until the end of my life. The aging fillings in the two back teeth are gone. The new crowns will last me until the end of my life.

I made it through the appointment without shedding a tear; indeed, most of time I was marveling at how incredibly stoned I was from the nitrous oxide. For two hours, the most coherent thought I had was, "Wow, I am really fucked up."

Nevertheless, I repeatedly tried to relax my shoulders and arms, and tried to send my mind away to other thoughts -- but I can tell from the aches in my body that I will be sore tomorrow just from the tension stress.

It's only 4:30 in the afternoon, but I want to crawl under the figurative porch and be left alone, like a sick dog.

Note: When I came back from the dentist, both dogs climbed into my lap, sniffed my face and hair, and kissed me gently in concern. What good boys!