Crybaby Threat Level: High

Once upon a time I had my tooth pulled. After saying peace out to Molar 4, I was given the consolation prize of some pain killers.

I took some yesterday after the anesthesia wore off and they made me sleepy. So, I resolved to substitute the prescription strength pain killers for some regular Joe ibuprofen.

Side note: I would make a crappy upper class housewife because I can't handle Vicoden. So long, New York socialite life.

Anyway, this morning when my mouth felt like someone spent all night hitting it with a hammer, I did what any smart person would do: I took a Vicoden (I convinced myself it needed a second chance) and then drove to work. All in a day's work, folks.

So now my tummy is aboard the nausea train, my mouth is sore and tastes like iron and I'm hungry but it hurts to eat food. In other words, woe is fucking me.

Thus, here is a link to the "Where The Wild Things Are" trailer because it makes me really happy. And because deep down inside, I know this blog post fits me to a tee.

Why I Now Want To Be An Oral Surgeon: A Short Essay.

Tomorrow, I'll be saying good-bye to an old friend.



That's right, after twenty-two years hiding out in my gums, good ol' Top Right wisdom tooth decided to make it's grand entrance. Trouble is, it wasn't so grand. Instead of being a lady about it and curtsying in what would've undoubtedly been a fancy dress, it ripped into my mouth like fucking Rambo and took some names.


This isn't Vietnam.

Lucky for me, my mouth only has one crazed wisdom tooth instead of the usual four. However, nobody told the oral surgeon that because he's still charging me a ludicrous amount of money to remove Top Right.


Not quite as ludicrous as this, but you get the point.

For one tooth it's costing me $512. FOR ONE TOOTH. I understand it's a rebel tooth, but, listen, it's not going to suicide bomb my entire mouth or anything. Is this tooth some sort of long lost reincarnated medallion that will unlock the mystery of life? No? Then why do you insist on me paying you like it is? WHY.

The moral of this story is this: grow up to be an oral surgeon. Sure, yanking teeth out might not be the most exciting thing in the world, but you could take solace in the giant piles of money that you fashioned into chairs in your gigantic mansion. God, so that's why all the girls want to marry doctors.

Top Right, you have taught me so much. Good-bye, ol' buddy. I probably won't miss you that much.

Ouch.

Yesterday was so laughably terrible that I had no other choice than to, well, laugh at it all. I spent the first part of my day drenched in the stench of mediocrity and dirty feet at the DMV, followed by numerous phone calls to unexpectedly helpful banks. Thanks for not screwing me on this one, Wells Fargo.

After spending the day running errands, I made some soup and called it a day. Poppa J came over and we rented some movies. I was enjoying just hanging out with Poppa J and Red, but I couldn't shake the headache I had. I started rubbing my temples, but that just made it hurt even more.

Oh well, I thought. It's probably because I'm wearing a hat and I've had a stressful day. I'll just sleep it off.

This morning I woke up like most other mornings: groggy and craving a muffin. I got into the shower and praised Jesus for warm water. After steaming up the bathroom, I wiped the mirror clean and saw this:


Not pictured: Ike Turner.

What the holy hell?! Where did that come from? I searched my noggin and suddenly remembered what happened. There is a shelf above my bed where sometimes things are put. Heavy things. And sometimes said things fall DIRECTLY ONTO MY HEAD.

Hello, Klutziness? It's your old friend, KV. Glad you could drop by.

I tried to cover it up lest my co-workers think I'm cooler than I am by sporting a black eye on a Wednesday.


Also not pictured: emo tears.

Sorry guys, no bar fights over here to speak of. Just a laughably terrible Tuesday.