As I've mentioned many, many times before, my mouth is seriously fucked. (Though that x-ray is not mine—it belongs to Queen Hatshepsut, who ruled Egypt around 3500 years ago.) This week I had to have two teeth pulled, which you'd think would be horror-show enough. But no. One of these teeth had curly roots, so instead of just yanking it out, my periodontist had to go a-digging up in my head.
It was not pleasant to say the least. Since he was up there anyway, he did a bone graft and I left the office 2.5 hours later feeling like someone had punched me in the face. He suggested I take some Advil when I got home. Yeah, right. I've been down that road before and had called in the big guns—my friend Vicodin. I'd had to bully my other dentist into prescribing them the week before (yes, I have two people working on my mouth) and was saving them for what I knew would be serious pain.
I do not understand doctors and their problem prescribing painkillers! I'm not going to become a drug addict off eight Vicodin tablets! I only took two and a half because I know I have more painful procedures coming up soon and I want to save them. Plus, I don't even like the way I feel on them. I just don't want to be in pain.
So between my mouth hurting and my brain being sad about the whole debacle I haven't been in a great mood and have only been writing stuff that people are paying me for. Here's my latest Seattle column and also my latest Frisky piece about being friend-dumped via Facebook. Ah, the indignity. It just keeps a-coming.