The email started with:

You should now be free of pain, and back to normal.

It was from the dentist.

First of all, I have never been exactly normal.

And the pain?  Hey, I had that wisdom tooth for at least 40 years.

I need time for grieving.

“Remember to floss and brush your new crowns, at least twice a day.”

Or else?

Forget it.  I don’t want to know.

So, in a few days, I go back.

This time for another crown and a filling.

I really should get a throne, don’t you think?  To go along with all my crowns?

The strangest part of my treks to the dental office is that the original problem has yet to be addressed.

I lost a crown.

I found it on the floor.

I carried it in my pocket and when the dentist saw it, she immediately put on rubber gloves and a mask.

What the hell?

Anyway, it is back in my mouth.

However, I am not supposed to floss it.

Not supposed to eat anything near it.

Not supposed to disturb that precarious crown.

Meanwhile, the damn thing is super glued, while I get crowns everywhere else.

Do you know what it’s like not to eat a crisp apple?  A slice of pizza?  A bagel loaded with cream cheese?  An ear of sweet corn?  A can of cashews?

I stopped by the bar for a beer on the way home and it was wing night.  The people were chomping on those crispy wings, while I sipped a beer from a glass of ice, from a straw, not to disturb the royal crown.

For now, I am holding on to my title of queenie, and will be enjoying the royal duty of flossing my ass off, before heading to bed.

Until tomorrow,

Wolf

 

 

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One thought on “Long live the Queen.

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