The Bloody Doors Off

The denture powder kinda works.

It holds the top plate in place for a good 6-8 hours, but eventually loses cohesion, and requires more powder.

Which means I should carry it with me, or pre-dust before going out for dinner.

Yep, I’m that vain.

Can’t stand the idea of a denture slip as I’m politely, slowly, jawing my food. (It’s not pretty to start with.)

You ever see a dog eat peanut butter?

I joke. I kid.

I use deprecating humour as a defence mechanism.

I make fun of me so you don’t have to.

Which stems from childhood, I’d imagine.

Chonky kid, divorced parents, not the best self-esteem.

Lemme set this straight, right now. This isn’t a pity post. I’m not looking for sympathy.

Nor am I looking for advice. I have a psychiatrist.

I’m just working shit out. Which happens to be in my blog.

That I’m willing to share.

Making this public forces me to be honest with myself. The truth is easier to remember than a lie. (I hate the truth will set you free. Confess a murder, they ain’t gonna let you walk out of the police station.)

I also know. I don’t tend to revisit specific past events after I’ve written about them.

It still exists. If I want to remember, I’ll rifle through past posts.

Maybe I should reconsider my naming conventions.