But over the weekend, I broke a tooth. Sigh. I can hear my father in my head right now . . . he seemed to break a tooth every other day and I never thought much of it. Now that it is my mouth and my tooth and my money that has to pay for that tooth, it's all different. So, tomorrow I go in and have someone get in my face and poke me with sharp things and then turn on that hideous drill and then, when the torture is over, they will charge me money. Now, doesn't that just seem wrong somehow? I would just put up with it, except that it has this nasty sharp edge that is determined to slice my tongue every time I talk or try to eat something more solid than yogurt. So . . sigh. I will go in. I will open wide. I will squirm. And then I will pay.
But I won't like it.