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shiny objects

Saturday, January 08, 2005


Well, they've done it. Those vampires, fiending for my lifeblood,have finally done it. They took my wisdom teeth. Here is a list of the top 10 things that suck about elective oral surgery . . .

10. OSHA (organization for health regulations) says that since my teeth are a biohazard, I am not allowed to keep them. They're my teeth goddamnit! If I want to slake my morbid curiousity by making a necklace out of objects that used to be imbedded in the bone of my jaw, then SO BE IT. It's not as if I can catch AIDS from my own body parts.

9. The dentist didn't give me enough pre-operative nitrous oxide to do SHIT for me. No giggles, no relaxation, no NOTHING. So I spent a good five minutes in abject terror while he prepared my IV; he even had the courtesy to chide me for squealing when he jabbed the barbaric steel needle into my arm. Aww, how kind.

8. Blood. Lots of blood. Usually, I don't have a problem with my own sanguinous fluids, but when I find myself choking on it, aspirating it, vomiting it up in gobby streams from my stomach, and wiping it constantly from my miserable, dripping nose, it gets to be a bit much.

7. What isn't wrong with this sentence: "Just keep this bag of frozen peas on your face and you won't turn into a chipmunk!"

6. No post-operative smoking, drinking, or making-out for a week.

5. Thai spice noodles + exposed jawbone = lisping stream of curse words.

4. Damn you, aching maw, for making me detest, via over-exposure, the confection for which I once clammored: TCBY frozen yogurt. DAMN YOU!

3. After that rubber jaw prop, my TMJ feels great. Lets me know I'm alive . . . because it's KILLIN' me.

2. At least the codine halucinations keep me on my toes. During my 50 minutes of restive sleep this morning, I dreamed that fig newtons were taking over the world. Alas, twas but a vision. Where is my sweet, sweet fig filling of deliverance?! YOU LIED TO ME, NEWTON! FIGGLY FALSIFIER!

1. No . . . more . . . jello . . . I beg of you . . . no . . . not the spoon. Not the spoon! Oh, green gobs of angst, how you slither down my throat . . .


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