It’s been a long day.  My right lower wisdom tooth has been acting a damn fool for the past week.  The gum is inflamed and sore as a mother, so today I had an appointment with an oral surgeon to have a consultation.

First off: the surgeon looked exactly like Brent Spiner.  Oddly comforting.  When he asked me what I like to do for fun (taking notes to improve his programming, no doubt), I replied with “writing,” and explained that I was moving to LA in a couple months to pursue it.  He looked at my teeth (straightened thanks to three years of braces), and told me I had a great smile and a great look and he’s sure I’ll get far in Hollywood.  I get that a lot.  I always grimace.

While mostly flattering and sometimes creepy, I get slightly annoyed when people tell me my looks/boobs/whatever will help me when I move to Hollywood.  Mostly because I know that I could look like Worf and still get a writing job.  I’ve seen those people.  They ain’t pretty.  Also, because I’d like my success to be based more off my talent and less on my huge…tracts of land.  Sorry I have standards and dignity and a healthy portion of self-respect.  Sorry I’d like to be judged on my body of work and not on my body itself.  I’m sorry I’m not the most boring person ever!  Sorry I’m not poor!  Sorry I don’t have a fat ass!  Sorry I’m not–hey, where are you going?

</Just Friends reference>

Anyway, so Dr. Data looks at my x-rays and my gums and tells me that I need to have these suckers removed ASAP because they’re inflamed and impacted.  How soon is ASAP, I asked?  Are you busy tomorrow, he answered.


Here’s the thing, guys.  I’m a tough cookie.  I’ve had a kidney stone, ruptured cysts, shattered elbow, the whole nine.  My doctor once told me I’ve got the maladies of an 80-year-old man and the mouth of a 13-year-old boy.  Nice.  Point is, I’m used to hospitals and ERs and stitches and all that jazz, I’ve got a really high pain tolerance, and my brain is 99% a panic-free zone.  The one thing that I can’t abide?  Surgery.  I hate the idea of going out cold and waking up with less pieces.  It’s so invasive (um, duh Nicole, someone’s cutting into and diggin’ around in your body). It probably stems from the fact that when I was four, I went in for a routine tonsillectomy, and ended up in the hospital for two weeks because they couldn’t stop the bleeding and I nearly died on the table.  Blood tranfusions, multiple cauterizations, you name it.  That was the only surgery I’ve ever had, and I’m sure you can see why I’m more than a little anxious (read: TRIPPING FUCKING BALLS) about tomorrow.

If this blog don’t get updated again, you’ll know why.  The surgery gods ganked me on the second try.  Adieu, adieu, tous mes amis.  I’ll see you if I make it through the surgery.

Yeah, I TOTALLY rapped that to myself Will Smith “Boom Shake The Room” style.  Fuck yeah.

Speaking of which…another thing I’m terrified of tomorrow?  The filth that I just know is going to pour out of my mouth when I come out of anesthesia.  OH SHIT.  I use “fuck” the way most people use “umm,” I don’t know what kind of putrescence is gong to spill out when my filter is wholly nonfuctional (as opposed to mostly nonfunctional like most of the time).  I’m going to have mouth rot for sure.  I’m going to try and talk Donnie into recording me as I come out of it.  *fingers crossed*

Fun fact: when I want to distract myself, I write.  Hence, this long ass blog.  Thanks for sticking with me, gang.

So, since everyone in real life has requested pseudonyms when mentioned in this blog, we’ll call my friend Matthew David Curtis.  Because that’s totally not his real name (YES IT IS).  Anyway, he and his fiancée went to see Jonathan Coulton in NYC last week, and I was totally jealous because I had a goddamn motherfucking ball when I saw him in February in Tempe.  He sat front row center stage (like we did!) and his lady got picked as Mrs. Frogger (like I did!), so they’re our couple twins.  He recorded the show (available here), and as a prize to myself in case I die tomorrow in surgery, I stopped working and I watched his recordings.

I love watching JoCo play his guitar more than I like singing along and dancing to his music (which is a fuck ton.  Man, don’t get me started on Shop Vac, I cannot sit still during that song.).  He’s a master.  Every time, I get inspired to go practice on my guitar, Shadowcat (yeah, I named my guitar after Kitty Pryde.  Jealous?)  And every time I play my guitar, I get super-discouraged because I’ll never be as good as JoCo (who studied music at Yale).  Cut to me putting Shadowcat away and playing JoCo songs on Rock Band.  EVERY.  TIME.

It helps that I at least play it on expert…right?  Right?

WHY THE FUCK IS THE RED SOX/YANKEES GAME ON?  I was promised Game 2 of Angels vs. Twins, MLBN.  Be more rude.

Oh just kidding, crisis averted, the game’s just running long, Angels are coming on next.  I CAN SEE YO HALOOOOO!

Baseball will be more distracting than blogging.  Catch you on the flip side.

…by flip side, I mean next blog, not the afterlife.  *fingers crossed*

Tune du Jour: We Used To Be Friends by The Dandy Warhols


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