Thanks to my shitty genes (survival of the fittest does not bode well for me), I just endured a two-hour long bone grafting/Osseous procedure with the periodontist. It wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences, so as a defense mechanism I closed my eyes as soon as the procedure started and entertained myself with nothing but my witty imagination and the noises coming from my mouth, which I assumed to be a horrifying 8-bit cat sacrificial ritual.
Here are some of the things that went through my head:
- “Man, he’s like spray painting my mouth with sprinkles right now. Ooh, or maybe vodka.”
- “I wonder if he goes through this much trouble if he dropped a penny underneath his couch.”
- “Open… open” he kept saying. I guess he’s a big fan of those Mervyn’s door-busters sales.
- “‘Open wide’ he said. I wonder why dentists don’t ever tell me I’ve opened my mouth wide enough.”
- “Now I can tell this is a saw, but I would much rather think of it as a live reenactment of Transformers: The Movie. That Megan Fox is mad bleeding right now.”
- “Is he helping me floss right now? Wait, wait, nope, that floss definitely just went through my gums.”
- “The periodontist’s belly is touching my head and he’s got at least three fingers in my mouth; this is at least second base by my book.”
- “Ok, he definitely reiterated ‘Don’t spit, just swallow in the next 24 hours’ one too many times.”
- “Oh sweet! He just told me that he hooked me up with some human bone implant (instead of cow bone), but is it bad that I want to ask ‘What ethnicity?'”
And as much as I’m unable to talk in the next few hours, I’m really dying to say this:
You got stitches on your arm? That’s cute because I got a stitches on my gum, bitch.
Winson Shuen works at IGN but is not an editor. All opinions expressed here are solely his own and do not represent his employer by any means. You can follow him on Twitter @vdot90.