The Bloody Doors Off

Another big day tomorrow.

Four bottom teeth comin’ out.

Now I just need to …

Actually, there’s nothing I need to do.

And there it is.

Stage five.

Acceptance.

I fucked up my teeth.

My fault. No one else’s.

I’m paying the price.

Granted, I look better with the top plate in.

I just haven’t figure out how to eat properly with ’em.

Given that I am a vain motherfucker.

I’ll probably get the bottom plate.

At least take the mold tomorrow.

The next few days are gonna be fun.

If this goes like the previous procedure, I’ll be out of the chair in an hour.

And eating gauze well into the afternoon.

Huh. I wonder if I should be wearing the top plate while the gums heal.

I’d think so. I’ll have to ask.

No pictures though.

Blame my vanity.

It’s funny, innit?

I write about this shit. No holds barred.

But I refuse to let anyone see my smile without the dentures.

Who’d have thought that was the line I wouldn’t cross.

I’ll tell you about my heavy drinking days.

How I conned a beer out of a poor old guy who just wanted someone to listen to him.

(I didn’t do AA, but I wish I could make amends to him.)

But showing holes in my mouth? Nuh uh.

I might write more later.