Va, pensiero, sull'ali dorate

Is it normal to have a really vivid dream where you cheated on your boyfriend with the first guy that asks, and then change your fb status from in a relationship to single, back to in a relationship, and then tell boyfriend a it was an accident and he believes you?

The amount of time I spend on tumblr is directly proportional to how annoyed with people I am. This is true because I say it is.

Creeping on all the facebook group pictures you missed out on is the worst feeling…

And I don’t know what’s the worst part. I’m missing tonight’s away game with the band, will be puffy-cheeked and miserable tomorrow morning for the SAT, and will have to march without playing for Saturday’s contest.

It will be routine; they tell me. A simple tooth extraction. I won’t feel a thing. Then all pretenses disappear. The chair is lowered, the lamp shined in my eyes. I open my mouth obediently, and the procedure begins. Arms connected to gloves holding cotton swabs dart in and out, spreading a goo along my gums. Then the other pair of hands, holding a long needle, appear at the edge of my vision. Before I can close my mouth, the other pair of hands puts in a “bite block” on my left side. I am remembering civil war documentaries about surgery, and how they gave patients leather to bite before they sawed off their legs without anesthesia. Then the hand holding the needle speaks. “This is the anesthesia, and it’s the worst part. Afterwards, nothing will hurt.” I am only slightly comforted.

Then the needle stabs, and I let out an involuntary whimper. Instead of withdrawing, it presses deeper, but sensation is lessened each second that passes. After what feels like an eternity, the needle recedes, and the voice speaks again. “Do you have a low pain tolerance? Because some people need to be numbed more than once.” Foolishly, I shake my head the little amount I am able to move it. I have never been bothered by pain before, and see no reason to start now. Little kids with cavities get teeth pulled all the time, and if they can handle it, so can I.

Fortifying phrases running through my head, I see a pair of heavy pliers descend. They clamp on my tooth, and then nothing happens. Tools exchange hands, and different instruments are applied, but all to no avail. My head is yanked in every direction, my whole jaw hurting. And the tools dig on, like a jack under a tire, trying to lift a car. The pressure, if not the direct scraping, hurts a lot. But I am stoic except for the betrayal of my squeezing hands, until I remember, suddenly, that it is cold season and I am not lucky enough to be unaffected. I have been laying on my back long enough that all the congestion previously blocking my nose is now attempting to block off my throat. I realize that I can barely breathe, and that’s when the panic sets in. The pain and fear have made me rigid, and the hands take notice and pause. I think I will in fact escape this torment, but there is a low command of “more anesthesia” and the needle returns to shoot into more places in my mouth. I feel a slight sense of relief.

I zone back in for two words: “bone saw”. I should have known things would, in fact, get much, much, worse. I imagine the high pitched whine of the saw attacking the base of my tooth is the sound of my scream, were I able to breathe and/or move my mouth. Then the voice says “suction,” and as soon as the proper tube is applied, I understand why. The liquid that is sucked out of my mouth and stains the tube is a pure, bright red. Now that I notice the blood, it is everywhere. On gloves, pliers, pincers, picks, and even a little bit on the lamp, where a gloved hand adjusted it to shine even more into my eyes. I never before considered myself afraid of seeing a little blood, but I am not exactly in a sane state of mind. There is moisture gathering in my ceiling-staring eyes, and just then, an involuntary tear slips out. The drilling goes on, and the blood continues to slurp up the suction tube until finally, with a silent signal, all operations cease. It’s time to try again to yank my whole head off.

The huge pliers descend again, and then pause. The suspense is unbearable, and then a hand attempts to pat my head comfortingly. The voice says “you’ve been such a good patient. This is almost over. I just don’t want you to be alarmed if there’s a big cracking sound. The tooth is going to break apart when I pull it out.” I am suspicious, but attempt to make eye contact and nod imperceptibly. Then the pliers give one great yank, and there’s a loud crunch. The top part of my tooth is extracted. The voice then explains there are still shattered remains of my tooth left. I momentarily compare myself to a mortar survivor, filled with shrapnel. Tony Stark could live with shrapnel in his heart for the rest of his life, I will be perfectly content to wobble out of my chair and leave here this instant. But no, my melodrama is shattered when tweezers begin to dig around in the hole left by my tooth. Piece by bloody piece, the splinters are recovered. There is a finality to the clinking of the tweezers set down in the pan.

Then, without warning, my chair is raised. I am too weak with fear and pain to sit up, and look around disoriented. The x-ray machine is brought to my side, and an x-ray taken to check whether all the pieces have been removed. And of course, since luck is not on my side today, they haven’t. Down goes the chair again, and the tweezers dig out one final piece of tooth.

I relax, for the first time in what feels like hours, but then the whir of the motor kicks in and the chair is lowered again. The hand pats me on the shoulder, leaving behind a faint bloody handprint. “You’ve been so good! Now it’s time for the next tooth to come out.”

So Homecoming went well, considering boyfriend couldn’t make it. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but band kids and girlfriends saved the night! I had so much more fun with a small group of people I actually like at a friend’s house than some big fancy dinner party. And of course, the popular people never show up to dances on time, so the first hour, it was all band kids. :) We danced in these huge groups with actual room to move, and even started incorporating visuals from our show and some marching! Some non-bandies kept trying to join in, it was hilarious. And I was kind of glad I wasn’t invited to any after-parties… I had much more fun making fun of chick flicks with the same group of friends than getting drunk.

That was the most painful essay of my liiiiiiifffffffffffeeeeeeeeeee

GAAAAHHH I AM A HORRIBLE WRITER AND A HORRIBLE PERSON