I’ve got an impacted wisdom tooth. Well, let me clarify. It’s been impacted for several years–a “soft tissue” impaction, where the top part of the tooth pokes out back yonder, but the rest doesn’t bother to make an appearance. Apparently it thinks the world is a cruel, cruel place and feels much safer nestled in the nether regions of my gums.

Most of the time my wisdom tooth just sits there, quietly hiding, not much more than a slight nuisance. But every so often it kicks up its heels to really make its presence known; kind of like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. And yesterday it stuck the proverbial lampshade on its head and stood up to sing the chorus of “Go On Home British Soldiers.” My cheek is sore and swollen, my ear and head are pounding, and I’m beginning to sing the chorus of holy shit, I wish this pain would Go On Home.

Naturally you’re wondering, “Kel. Why have you not been to a dentist to have the offending tooth removed by now?” Aye, there’s the rub. There are three things in life I fear above all else.

1.) Flying (or, rather, being a passenger aboard an airplane, since I don’t actually fly.)
2.) Donald Trump’s hair.
3.) Dentist bills.

Normally I would sit here in agony, moaning and cursing and singing bitter parodies of bitter Irish folk songs. Fortuanately I’m in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I can channel that agony into my book. I have the feeling my characters are going to be doing a great deal of moaning and cursing for the next few days. Someone might slay a dentist. Or shave Donald Trump’s head. The singing of folk songs will largely depend on how my word count is faring.

I’ve got an impacted wisdom tooth. Well, let me clarify. It’s been impacted for several years–a “soft tissue” impaction, where the top part of the tooth pokes out back yonder, but the rest doesn’t bother to make an appearance. Apparently it thinks the world is a cruel, cruel place and feels much safer nestled in the nether regions of my gums.

Most of the time my wisdom tooth just sits there, quietly hiding, not much more than a slight nuisance. But every so often it kicks up its heels to really make its presence known; kind of like a drunk uncle at a family reunion. And yesterday it stuck the proverbial lampshade on its head and stood up to sing the chorus of “Go On Home British Soldiers.” My cheek is sore and swollen, my ear and head are pounding, and I’m beginning to sing the chorus of holy shit, I wish this pain would Go On Home.

Naturally you’re wondering, “Kel. Why have you not been to a dentist to have the offending tooth removed by now?” Aye, there’s the rub. There are three things in life I fear above all else.

1.) Flying (or, rather, being a passenger aboard an airplane, since I don’t actually fly.)
2.) Donald Trump’s hair.
3.) Dentist bills.

Normally I would sit here in agony, moaning and cursing and singing bitter parodies of bitter Irish folk songs. Fortuanately I’m in the middle of NaNoWriMo, so I can channel that agony into my book. I have the feeling my characters are going to be doing a great deal of moaning and cursing for the next few days. Someone might slay a dentist. Or shave Donald Trump’s head. The singing of folk songs will largely depend on how my word count is faring.