dentist.

The time lolled by and I sat still, very still where I was sitting in the musty upholstered chair. You would have thought time was turning into this muckity muck, gingerly gushing out the end of a long PVC pipe down a drain of nonsense. I swallowed once. Twice. And then turned my head towards the clock. It was five minutes past my appointment, and no one had called my name yet.

My knee bobbed up and down as it tried to control the excited reverberations of my heart. Who gets a tooth pulled on a Saturday? Idiots.

Laying in the chair turned out to be worse. The sharp lights squinted at me in mocking fashion, and I had no choice but to squint back through the glassy shades I was given. They were no help. But I wore them anyway. Doctors in general are notorious for taking more than a “few minutes” to come in and examine you. Dentists especially, in my personal opinion.

Back and forth, back and forth. My gums are jolly with Novocain but the pressure is a beast. Somehow through my emotionless jaw the tooth screamed at me, raking its roots along the insides, fighting to stay put. My eyelids closed shut and I tried to think of other things. Sunsets. Cute Shoes. Food. Matthew McConaughey Jake Gamble. Anything other than toothpaste, really.

Holes are no fun. Holes in your mouth can make you suicidal. The way I see it, holes must be better than giant molars taking over your mouth, scribbling their names on the insides of your cheeks, making it impossible to bite down without eating your own face. That’s the way I see it, anyway.