I heard my dentist say, “Oops!” then walk out the room nervously. The assistant came in to take another X-ray, and after a few minutes of staring into the illuminated palm trees on the ceiling that made me eerily crave a Corona with lime, I was informed in vague language that there might be a problem.
Great. I’ve been around enough doctors to know that when they start speaking in the passive voice, that means they’ve suddenly become wary of liability. This dude just fucked something up, and he didn’t want to freak me out about it.
Little did he know I had enough Xanax coursing through my bloodstream that he could’ve informed me the hole he just drilled into my tooth had opened up an evil portal across the 8th dimension, and I would have just smiled and said, “Laugh while you can, monkey-boy!”
No, instead he told me that something or other cracked and blah-blah-blah next to the bone and blah-blah-blah it’s probably not a big deal, but I’m gonna refer you to an endodontist.
Okay, dude. Whatever. Just give me a few of those big white pills, don’t send me a bill, and I won’t sue you. That sounds like a fair deal, right?
Anyways, now my whole week is about this one tooth. On the bright side, I won’t be in any pain, and not being able to chew is a great reason to go on a juice cleanse.