Tip of the day: Do not allow random men to rip perfectly functional teeth out of your head.
Hey, if anyone has a minute, would you mind asking the bad man to stop this ride so I can get off? Thanks.
So this entire wisdom teeth thing has been one big barrel of rabid monkeys. I had fully expected to be at least a little bit better by this point in time, but if the site of extraction ("The Throbbing Holes of Death") is actually healing, it's certainly not being reflected in any of my conscious feelings.
I just had a very odd bodily experience wherein I was simultaneously glued to the couch by the huge Paperweight O' Gravity and flying through the air due to the Blue Candy-Like Pills That Don't Take Away Pain But Probably Have Some Sort of Medicinal Properties Somewhere. During that time of exquisite insanity, my stomach kept saying, "Umm, hello? Can we possibly abort this plan? It's really not working for me." To which the phantom wisdom teeth replied, in a fake French accent, "Heh heh heh, not in zees lifetime! We need zee pills. Zey are like a good cheese: way too expenseev and not serving any useful purpose whatsoevair!"
(It's true: I don't like "good" cheese.)
Speaking of food, (Food? Where? Gimme!) when it's not flying through mind-space, my stomach can always be found pleading for some. "Okay," it says in a calm tone, "remember that soup from an hour ago? Now don't get me wrong, it was a very nice condensed Campbell's soup. And those star-shaped noodles? Very cute. But... Could you maybe sometime in the near future possibly... give me some freaking real food here? Meat, dammit! I need meat! And a large loaf of bread! And something besides those sissy-pants mashed potatoes that you keep throwing at me. Fake meat-flavored gravy ain't cuttin' it, buddy!"
Oh, what I wouldn't give for a steak.
And, you know, a whole heck of a lot less pain. But I wouldn't want to go around asking for too much. While my oral surgeon appeared to be a jovial man with no hatred toward humanity in general (or me in particular), I am starting to believe that he was really a sadist. What kind of person has the nerve to charge me over a thousand dollars for the privilege of having him rip perfectly functional (i.e. heavily-rooted) teeth out of my head? And then, on top of it, prescribes wussy Tylenol-esque prescriptions? And, on top of that, has the gall to be cheerful about it?
Granted, I'm extremely grateful that he medicated me enough so that I didn't wake up while he was in the midst of shoving the rusty chainsaw halfway down my throat. I would roughly estimate the value of this courtesy as being comparable to the value of my iPod. But if he wanted money enough for six iPods, he really could have stepped it up a little and given me a little less pain.
Because, right at this moment, I would gladly trade my iPod for a nice painkiller. And, well, if you wanted to throw in a complimentary steak, I really wouldn't object.
So this entire wisdom teeth thing has been one big barrel of rabid monkeys. I had fully expected to be at least a little bit better by this point in time, but if the site of extraction ("The Throbbing Holes of Death") is actually healing, it's certainly not being reflected in any of my conscious feelings.
I just had a very odd bodily experience wherein I was simultaneously glued to the couch by the huge Paperweight O' Gravity and flying through the air due to the Blue Candy-Like Pills That Don't Take Away Pain But Probably Have Some Sort of Medicinal Properties Somewhere. During that time of exquisite insanity, my stomach kept saying, "Umm, hello? Can we possibly abort this plan? It's really not working for me." To which the phantom wisdom teeth replied, in a fake French accent, "Heh heh heh, not in zees lifetime! We need zee pills. Zey are like a good cheese: way too expenseev and not serving any useful purpose whatsoevair!"
(It's true: I don't like "good" cheese.)
Speaking of food, (Food? Where? Gimme!) when it's not flying through mind-space, my stomach can always be found pleading for some. "Okay," it says in a calm tone, "remember that soup from an hour ago? Now don't get me wrong, it was a very nice condensed Campbell's soup. And those star-shaped noodles? Very cute. But... Could you maybe sometime in the near future possibly... give me some freaking real food here? Meat, dammit! I need meat! And a large loaf of bread! And something besides those sissy-pants mashed potatoes that you keep throwing at me. Fake meat-flavored gravy ain't cuttin' it, buddy!"
Oh, what I wouldn't give for a steak.
And, you know, a whole heck of a lot less pain. But I wouldn't want to go around asking for too much. While my oral surgeon appeared to be a jovial man with no hatred toward humanity in general (or me in particular), I am starting to believe that he was really a sadist. What kind of person has the nerve to charge me over a thousand dollars for the privilege of having him rip perfectly functional (i.e. heavily-rooted) teeth out of my head? And then, on top of it, prescribes wussy Tylenol-esque prescriptions? And, on top of that, has the gall to be cheerful about it?
Granted, I'm extremely grateful that he medicated me enough so that I didn't wake up while he was in the midst of shoving the rusty chainsaw halfway down my throat. I would roughly estimate the value of this courtesy as being comparable to the value of my iPod. But if he wanted money enough for six iPods, he really could have stepped it up a little and given me a little less pain.
Because, right at this moment, I would gladly trade my iPod for a nice painkiller. And, well, if you wanted to throw in a complimentary steak, I really wouldn't object.