As I was laying in the reclining chair, a stranger poking and prodding and scraping at my decrepit teeth, it occured to me that this is probably as uncomfortable as I'll ever be. Considering the likelihood of me being electrocuted, kidnapped, raped, or pierced (never again, I'm allergic), that hour at the dentist is probably the worst it'll get.
I've probably just jinxed myself to a lifetime of paranoia and paraplegia.
And then I started thinking, to get away from the shrill spin of the torture device they call a whachamajigger, about how I've felt as bad as I'll ever feel when I was crouched on the floor, unable to move from the pain of the knowledge that my boyfriend had cheated on me. I'll never be in a worse place than that and if I get back to that again, I'll know I can come out of it.
I think I've just cursed my loved ones to die gruesome deaths.
Gruesome. You don't see that word too terribly often anymore. I had to look it up to make sure I was spelling it correctly.
Mental and physical anguish aside, my wisdom tooth is really pissed off at me and the novocaine is wearing off. It sucks that I talk for a living.
P.S. You'd be amazed how much preschool comes in handy with this job.