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.
