puffy
I had my lower wisdom teeth out yesterday, which marked my first experience with general anesthetic, followed by my first prescription for Vicodin. I was nervous about the former—that I would either die or, like, deliriously confess my wildest sexual fantasies to the hygienist assisting with the surgery.
There was an episode of Ellen—pre-coming-out—where she got high on nitrous and started hitting on her dentist. Although the dentist was a man, I always suspected that the plotline grew out of a fear that all closeted queers have of losing control and outing oneself.
But as far as I can remember, the most embarrassing thing that happened was that my dad, who drove me to the appointment, insisted on asking my oral surgeon a bunch of questions afterward, including whether he could see my extracted teeth (he could not). He was already disappointed that he hadn’t gotten a chance to refer me to his oral surgeon. My dad’s a control freak too, which is probably where I get it, not so much from being gay.
The Vicodin was also uneventful. And—knock on wood—I haven’t been in much pain, so I didn’t take a second dose. Pot has never done anything for me either, dammit. What’s a girl supposed to do when she wants to let go a little?
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Your wisdom teeth were impacted, I take it? I had all mine out years ago (not impacted) and they let me have 'em. They're probably still around somewhere in storage.
Yeah, the teeth were half-buried under my gums. In my mind, my mouth was the perfect place to store them, but my dentist disagreed.
-Christine
Noel: And what does it say when your wisdom goes rotten?
Of course, as a recovering pillhead,...yeah, I still say three. And I will add a carbonated beverage, because bubbles are GOOD.