Day Six: Day of Dread

I went to the dentist today. For many people, this is indeed a day of dread, but it has never been so for me. Fillings suck, and nothing is quiet as nauseating as smelling your own enamel dust floating into your nose as the dentist drills (drills!) away at your teeth. Nevertheless, for most of my life, I was the one in my family who got the most cavities- I like Skittles- so I was somewhat used to the whole experience.

When I was 20, I went to the dentist, and he said, "Son, you're working on about seven cavities real good. If you don't start flossin' and rinsin' and brushin' better your gonna end up with a mouth full of fillings." I was mortified. Seven cavities at one time? Good God, how far had I fallen? Where was my loin cloth and wooden club?

What did I do to rectify this situation? I'd love to say I started flossing like mad and became an oral hygiene fascist, but in fact, the opposite is true. Thus, the day o' dread. Five years later, and I found myself in the dentist's office this morning for the first time since I got griped out while strewn out on one of those Evil Lazy Boys. To cut to the chase, what happens to seven cavities that never get treated over a span of five years and a couple weeks? Leave your guesses in the comments section, and I'll let you know before all this madness is said and done. On to today's numbers.

Daily Goal: 1667

Today's Word Count: 2279

Surplus/Deficit: +612

J.W.B. account: 1676

The 10,000 word barrier has been breached! An excerpt is certainly in order! (In case you were wondering, I haven't really thought to make the excerpt inserts, well, sequential or anything, so if you have had trouble following along, that's because you weren't really supposed to. But I will consider following such a course of action).

"He stayed and chatted with Jill for a minute after the seminar was over, and thus was rushed to try to make it to Eyedrum before it closed. Once in the area of the gallery, it took him several drive-bys and questioning of kind passer-bys before he found it. Naturally, there was a sliding chain link fence between him and the gravel parking lot. He sat in the short, inclined driveway for a moment, wondering whether he should park the truck across the street and scale the fence (there was no barbwire at the top), or if he should just try and ram the damn thing (he could finally justify never having traded in his gas guzzling V-8).
Nonetheless, he did not have a chance to do either, as a beat up Toyota Corolla, practically painted in bumper stickers, was pulling up to the gate from the other side to exit. Cursing, he put the truck in reverse and backed up into the street, rolling down his window as the gate slowly rumbled open to let this guy out. He stuck his head out the window and shouted “Excuse me!” but before he could get out another word, the man, who looked to be somewhere in his twenties (as most hipsters do) nonchalantly swung his left thumb over his shoulder, as if to say, ‘Sigh, you can go after me, but, like, you better hurry before it closes ‘cause, you know, that could really fuck up your car, man.’ He floored it, skidding on the gravel parking lot as he quickly pulled in, narrowly missing the closing gate."