The Bloody Doors Off

So the lower plate is wedged in extremely tight. So much so, I can’t get them loose.

I am now real-time blogging my anxiety attack.

Freaked out. Exhausted. Ashamed.

Those are just the first three emotions I’m feeling.

This is more embarrassing than anything else.

But the anxiety’s been there since the last time I struggled to remove them.

And yes, I was vain enough to put them back in, rather than wait for the dentist’s office to call back.

My own damned fault.

This is why I can’t have nice things.

For a millisecond I entertained the idea of applying pliers to the effing things.

Interesting. Effing is a recognized word.

And it means exactly what I thought it did.

Okay. Good.

Distractions.

Take my mind off of the problem.

Calm my nerves.

It’s not like they’re gonna choke me in my sleep, if I have to wear them.

And there’s the image of them getting lodged in my throat.

Good job ramping up the anxiety there.

I’ll have to wear them in my sleep.

There’s no choice. The plate won’t budge.