(perforated lines)

(old times)

(left fish) ~ Monday, April 2, 2001 ~ (right fish)

 

12:41 a.m. Back when I skipped out of the dentist's office on happy legs a few weeks ago, I glanced at the little card they gave me and I laughed at the date -- so far in the future. Back then I was so glib. That was then.

The next appointment is now. It is upon me. Tomorrow. The Third of April. It has come up so fast.

In the middle of March I could be sanguine. Now I'm sick with terror. Again. And I should be ashamed because the worst is long over. I am a changed person. I actually floss. Don't particularly think it's the most fun a person can have, but I do it.

Tomorrow, it's just a cavity but I'm going to beg for a needle. Beg beg beg. I've become a chicken again. What if they (and they will) hit a nerve? I have a lot of nerves.

Right now, I'm all nerves.

Plus, I watched the Sopranos tonight because I watched the X-Files last night and because of the various plot lines and their logical outcomes, I spent most of the show in the kitchen, peeking. Listening. Eventually, I moved two rooms away and didn't even pretend to look. The show is getting too violent for me, I think.

I may have to start letting it drift away and just learn what's going on from news accounts and fan sites. Since I'm not an actual member of the Mafia, since I haven't myself decided to embark upon a lifetime of crime, since I don't go to dark sticky bars with almost-naked women posing as the entertainment ... since I don't live the life I really don't have to watch.

Entertainment shouldn't be this painful.

That's what the dentist is for.

 

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