So I’d been stumbling around the intarwebs, as I am wont to do, and came across Hyperbole and a Half’s post called The Party. I read it. Then I read it again, this time not pooping myself in laughter, and, instead, thinking about my own wisdom tooth experience. Now, according to my website’s stat counter (thank you WordPress, for putting that extra distracti0n into my day), most of you find these articles from notes on facebook, which means I literally know my readership. (Hi guys!) This, in turn, means that, today, I’m going to subject you to a story about my family and how we handle anything major, including surgery.
When I was seventeen – barely into the joys that would come right before Fate took my car away as I smashed it into two other, parked, cars – I went to the dentist for a routine checkup. “Ah,” said the hygenist, a large woman who frequently mistook me for my brother, “looks like your wisdom teeth are growing… oddly.”
“Hey, that just means I’m eclectic.” I’d recently learned the word from one of my teachers and had no idea what it meant.
“Uh. Yeah,” she said, removing the white mask and calling the dentist in.
Dr. Tuma came in, had a poke and said, “Yeah, we’re going to get those removed.
And that’s when the flashbacks began.