"Who does the dentist's teeth?" "Is there a discount?" "Where would a barber get a haircut?"
Questions to drift in and out of my head with every scrape and drill and injection of beautiful, sweet, weird anaesthetic. Three fillings. One hour. A comfortable chair to move up and down electronically and the thought that I won't be watching 'Marathon Man' any time soon.
I can't escape bad popular music.
Today FM and Katy fucking Perry's teenage dreams or whatever she's on about. I need this like a hole in the head, a pun I absolutely fucking intended. Dr. Greg ceases the drilling for the news for a moment and makes a quip about dead despots, then asks me why my cheeks are so hot.
"Do you get sinusitis?"
I was wondering how long it would be before he'd ask me a question, with seven shades of implement vying for my tongue.
"Uuuuggghhurrrhhuhhhh... Urh? Ughagagahhhh..." I responded.
"Thought so," he said, speaking fluent dentist. "That can also manifest itself in tooth pain."
Back to the scraping and the imaginings, the inability to figure out the time that had passed. He told me I'd done a great job with the flossing since my last visit and I took that with a pride I haven't known since third class.
I didn't mention the nauseous stomach I had or the fact that I could hear his, gurgling with the promise of his lunch. I just waited for the endless invasion to stop so I could head for the outside and feel all lopsided.