Success is going from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.

In that regard, I am incredibly successful.  And incredibly broke.

Hello my loyal Tablets.  I have a story for you.  About an hour ago, I was unfortunate enough to have to go to one of my least favorite places in the entire world: the dentist's office, or as I like to call it: Hell.  There are SO many things wrong with dentist trips that I honestly don't even know where to begin.  First off, the only reason we go to the dentist is because we're told to.  Yea, healthy teeth and mouths are good things to have, but who's to say we couldn't go to the dentist once ever three years and be fine?  I'll tell you who says that.  Dentists.  You know exactly what I'm talking about.  You're all finished up, thanking God that you've made it out of that death trap with your life, and they hurriedly usher you to the front counter where they schedule you for another trip in six months, while the only words you have time to sheepishly mutter are "Sure, I guess an appointment Saturday the 23rd at 3:16 am works for me."  Monsters.  

But let's get back to the beginning of the adventure.  I'm 90% positive everyone does the same thing on the day of a dental appointment.  You wake up, eat, shower, and start thinking about what you have to do today, when all of a sudden SHIT!!  Today you go to the dentist!  Quick, brush your teeth for forty five minutes while cursing through the toothpaste and wishing you didn't just eating syrup-covered Starbursts for breakfast, then floss for the first time since the last trip to the dentist, and try to stop the blood from gushing from your gums as you rush out the door to this "health" appointment.  You too?  Good, I'm not the only one.  Anyway, after I made it through that little morning debacle, I drove down to the office.  Aside from the fact that it smells like a combination of an old folks home, bleach, and sadness, I managed to sign in at the front desk, sit down, and begin reading the Sports Illustrated from eleven months ago.  Anything to take my mind off the demonic sadists behind those pearly white doors.  The people around me are called one by one, and I start wondering if there's a back door they shovel the customers out of, because nobody comes back out once they go in.  Then the moment arrives.  That stark white door slowly creaks open, and a name is called, "Tav Hiskey?"  That must be me, they probably couldn't read my name because I was having a fear-induced seizure while signing in.  Close enough.  I got up with all the confidence of a middle school boy at a dance and walked through the door into the completely featureless hallway, where they directed me into a room that looks like a slightly cleaner version of the set for Saw IV.  

At that point, the hygienist starts up some casual conversation, asking how I've been since the last visit, etc.  Why does she always know so much about me?  Do they stalk me in between visits?  Anyway, it'd actually be pretty soothing if while she was chatting she wasn't slowly unboxing a set of tools that would make an evil butcher nervous.  S I sit down and accept my fate, and she begins her work.  There's the usual conversation where they ask questions that I have no way of answering, because currently I have both of her hands entirely in my mouth, but that doesn't stop her from continuing the talk.  That's pretty universal.  At one point she even paused to tell me that I had impressively healthy gums.  Really?  Then please stop stabbing it.  That'd be just great.  Then she pulls out the tool that "polishes" your teeth.  "What flavor would you like?  We have mint, grape, cherry...." Cut the shit, woman, I know what happens here.  I don't care what flavor you use.  You're grinding it into my teeth so hard it doesn't matter.  I'm not thinking, "Ooh cinnamon!"  I'm thinking, "Holy Tap-dancing Moses my teeth are being dissolved!"  Maybe it would help if you used something less abrasive than a belt sander.  My teeth aren’t made of weapons grade steel, they're made of enamel and whatever the hell everyone else's teeth are made from.  

And of course to add on to all of the pain and life-threatening situations, when I went in at the beginning, I was already exhausted.  Now that doesn't sound like a big deal and you might be thinking to yourself, "Nut up, dammit.  So you're tired, stop being a little girl."  First off, go swallow a knife, I hate you.  Second, I'm not whining about being tired, I'm whining about how amazingly awkward it made the entire experience on top of everything else.  How, you ask?  Let me answer that question with another question:  What do you do when you're tired but can't sleep?  You yawn.  Yawning by itself is an innocent enough action.  Your mouth opens wide, a very strange noise comes out vaguely reminiscent of a muffled foghorn, and people know you're either tired or bored.  However, I'm in a dentist's office.  My mouth is already pried open as far as it can go.  So basically it looks like during her one-sided conversation, my mouth is completely open and I am randomly moaning loudly, making a noise that sounds like I'm either trying to imitate a dying seal or signaling my nomad band of mountain men.  Needless to say it caught her off guard.  

Then, after all that, after all the blood sweat and tears, the actual dentist decides to grace you with his presence.  Except instead of actually trying to convince you that he knows what he's doing, he cruises into the room, glances in your mouth, says a couple things like "Make a note of number 30, the lateral incisor, and the fractiongiggle," and flies out of the room, never to be seen again.  Thank you for your time, sir.  I'll be back in six months for some more quality bonding time.

Long story short, I hate the dentist.

This was weird.  I don't think I've ever written an entire post about one topic.  Thoughts?  Opinions?  Recipes?  Let me know.

Fact of the Day:  The first toothbrush with bristles was manufactured in China in 1498. The bristles were from hogs, horses and badgers.

Shout out to Allison Hatasaki.