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I got a notice today that it’s time to schedule my next dental appointment. I hate the dentist. HATE. The dentist. I have dentist friends, and while I love them, I would never go to them even if they lived in the same town, because then I’d have to hate them. I have no logical reason for hating the dentist. I didn’t get my first cavity until this year. I never had braces (though I probably should have). I’ve had no traumatic dental experiences other than a couple dry sockets when I had my wisdom teeth removed. And I actually laugh looking back at that one because I was so stoned from the anesthesia afterward that I kept trying to tell jokes with my mouth full of cotton balls but was totally incomprehensible. Then when I got home, I had to change out the gauze and was drooling blood into the sink and laughing hysterically like that was the funniest damn thing that ever was. Ever. And my dad just stood there laughing at me laughing at my own bloody drool. Then we took the teeth that had been removed and glued them to the bottom of a little glass bowl so it looked kind of like a clawfoot tub, and put gauze into the bowl, and wrapped the whole thing up and gave it to my mom for Christmas. ‘Cause we’re thoughtful like that.

Basically, my fear of dentists boils down to me just being a Wuss (that’s right, capital W). I went close to 10 years without going to the dentist, then had this weird thing that my dentist friend who lives far, far away texted might be an abscess when I asked him about it. So I sucked it up and went to a dentist and it turned out that I had just cut my gum with a tortilla chip or something on a spot where I have a “bony protuberance.” Doesn’t bony protuberance sound dirty? When they finished up with me, I grabbed the hygienist who was cleaning S’s teeth and convinced her to tell him that he needed 2 root canals STAT. I don’t know why he stays with me.