Must. Get. Every­thing. Paid. For. By. Insurance.

Hence, what bet­ter time to have a pro­ce­dure where some­one else’s gums are grafted onto mine, since appar­ently I have the gums of an elderly per­son? You know how it’s annoy­ing when the den­tist is all, “So, been on any vaca­tions lately?” and you’re like, “Um, your hands are in my mouth, ass­hole, so I can’t really elab­o­rate on my tour of Peru?”

OK, the peri­odon­tist was doing the same thing–about books, no less–while half of my mouth was numb and my lips felt about twenty feet thick. Even if I’d wanted to talk, I couldn’t. I left the office with one side of my mouth all droopy and weird, with a giant piece of gauze stuck in for good mea­sure. The effect was very…ugly. Then Ryan and I spent last night look­ing at my mouth and get­ting grossed out by it.