Drilling, Grinding, Scraping, Poking, Scratching

I hate the dentist. This is something I've never said before, but it's true. I don't just dislike the dentist, or feel annoyed by the dentist, or wish I didn't have to go to the dentist. I hate the dentist. Everything about the place -- from the quiet waiting room with its boring magazines, uncomfortable chairs, and menacing coat rack, to the lead vest they make you wear when you're getting x-rays -- makes me cringe with a mixture of fear and intense, intense edginess. It's like they've designed a facility that good hygeine dictates I visit biannually that is filled with all the things I'd rather not happen, most noteably the drilling and poking and prying of the teeth.

Much of my dislike of the dentist is rooted in my inability to use novacaine. No matter how much grinding, scraping, drilling, poking, poking, poking they do to me -- I still can't use novacaine. It's goddamn awful. I'm not looking forward to my wisdom teeth removal in the slightest. I've been putting it off for that exact reason. I'm hoping they'll go away on their own maybe -- I've even deluded myself into believing that that is possible. Nifty, eh?

My dentist is a nice man, though. I mean he's not the incarnate of evil you think would inhabit the job. He's got a wife, two kids, a Lexus, a summer cottage in Cape Cod -- no horns or hooves. He likes R&B too much for a white guy, but nobody's perfect. Whatareyougoingtodo? I can't hate him -- just his profession, place of work, staff, and the horrible things he does to my mouth.

I cracked a tooth -- that's the reason I was there -- and got it all fixed up today. I have to go back for a cleaning next week. I hate this. I hate the dentist.