Oh my god, I am so stoned on Nitrous Oxide.
WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!
The pretty colors! Look at all the pretty colors!!!!
So, I’m lying there and I gave the dental hygenist a piece of my mind before she gave me the gas. “The last time I got drilled, he had to give me seven shots before I got numb. Seven Shots!!!! There’s no gas in the world that can make you forget seven shots! Maybe he should have just used a little more goddamn novacaine in ANY ONE OF THE FIRST SIX SHOTS, HUH????”
Then I made a not-so-joking crack about how whenever there will be drilling, they bring you to the farthest chair in the back room… so the other patients aren’t disturbed by the screaming.
That’s when she musta cranked up the goo juice.
I love that woman!
At one point, I asked her if she ever had water fights with that little sprayer thing and she tried to demonstrate that they didn’t go very far… she shot a stream of water a good ten feet into the hall.
“Damn!” I said, only it was more like “Dabb!”
She laughed and then said “It’s a good thing Dr. John didn’t walk by right then.”
I told her I would have peed my pants if she had squirted Dr. John.
Only it came out like “Ahb wudda peeda by panbs ib Dahta Johb wabbed by den!”
Drugs is fine. I miss drugs. I was lying there, cranking up the NPR, listening to some twinkly effervescent classical crap, feeling the floaty feeling. This morning, too, I was waxing poetic about how I don’t drink but when I do drink, it’s straight alcohol, either martinis or Cosmopolitans, none of that wussy girl shit. Give me booze, baby. But I don’t. Because I have many alcoholics in my family who would just enjoy the hell out of my following in their footsteps. So not only do I have to fight against a propensity to store my winter fat in my ass, I also have to fight against a genetic predisposition to be addicted to various stimulants.
Just say No, kiddies. That’s what Weetabix does. Just say No.
Except if some fucker is coming at you with a drill… then take all the drugs they’ll give you.
Because I demanded the white fillings rather than the fugly silver ones (which was probably stupid as these cavities are further back than the two I already have which ARE silver), they had to put this fucked up device in my mouth to keep the area dry. From my saliva. Because apparently I am a girl who also has a genetic predisposition to wetness.
Boy, THAT oughtta give me a bunch of Google hits right there!
My hands are all cold. Bubba bubba bubba bubba.
Heh heh.
Anyway, they put this plastic harness thing in my face, which held my lips back off my face. I felt like Hannibal Lector. I tried saying “Hello Clarice!” in my really bad Anthony Hopkins impression but all they got was “Arrgo Harrys!” because I no longer had any lips at that point.
Then Dr. John started yelling at me to move my tongue back. Move your tongue back! Hold your tongue back please! I’d love to hold my tongue back, Dr. John, if you’ll kindly point out where it has gone!!!! I don’t know where my tongue is!
I’ve never seen that movie where the guy has his eye held open with a toothpick, but that’s what it felt like. At point point, BOTH of them had their hands in my mouth. I mean, I can’t even fit ONE of my hands in my mouth and they had FOUR hands, plus instruments, in my mouth. Dang.
Esteban better not read this… he’ll be wanting one of those mouth opener things for the bedroom.
Heeee!!!!!! Bubba Bubba!
Dr. John ended up putting cotton on my tongue to hold it down. That sounds really gross, but I was just taking his word for it. I never felt it. I never saw it come out. It was wacky that way.
After the drilling and the packing and stuff, they were done. I faked them out, made it seem like I was back to normal and then busted out of there. I hope they didn’t see me before the drilling, sitting there inhaling deeply… hold it…. hold it… hold it….. exhale… inhale… hold it… hold…. it…. hold…. it…. exhale!
Damn. I’m coming down now. My mouth hurts.
Even high, however, I am struck by how dang cute I look! The socks! Did I mention the socks? They are black, but then, if my trousers get pulled up, you see the red argyle pattern.
It’s like a little surprise party for my feet.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, hit the back button. I’d make a link for you, but I just don’t feel like doing anything other than playing with my fucked up face.
Bubba Bubba bubba
buh bye!
