radfrac_archive_full: (green grid)
Theory exam Monday.

I wish for the sake of my ambitions that this class had been slightly less of a thrilling challenge and slightly more of a walk in the park (up the merry path to grad school).

Dentist Tuesday.

I'm not in much pain from my neck, but the weakness is strange. I don't really feel different, but even a half-ramble becomes, by the end, a kind of Heave to, left leg lads! up that last hill home.

The odd thing is, the yoga made me feel better. Yet the neurologist was alarmed at the idea of my doing anything assertive with my neck.

Such as, for example, lying in a dentist's chair for 2.5 hours with my head canted back like a pez dispenser.

The story of some teeth )

Weary Wednesday.
Today Thursday.

And like that.

radfrac_archive_full: (writing)
[livejournal.com profile] inlandsea isn't ready for it to be September, so keep it up. And smile, or she'll know something's wrong.

Magnificent dental news: I chipped my tooth on a corn cob holder. One of those shaped like a miniature corn cob itself, with two vicious metal spikes jutting out of it just as in nature. I stuck it through the corn cob at an oblique angle and bit down hard. Now I have a chipped front tooth to go with the crater-riddled molars.

Will you still love me when my teeth are false?

I've just read Carol Shields and Blanche Howard's A Celibate Season and intensely disliked it.

I've finished my essay for the childless men anthology. I'd given a draft to [livejournal.com profile] inlandsea and [livejournal.com profile] stitchinmyside -- not a draft I was entirely happy with, but I was running out of time. Then yesterday I panicked and decided it wasn't funny enough. I don't know why I decided an essay about childlessness had to be funny.

I'm easily infected by the prose style of whatever I happen to be reading, so I thought if I consumed some David Sedaris essays, I could strike the proper tone of lovably eccentric homosexuality. They were all checked out at the library, but I remembered that some back issues of the New Yorker contain his work.

I looked through the stack I'd donated/abandoned to the laundry room, but didn't find any Sedaris essays. So I went to look through the various book stacks in the apartment, and discovered that very nearly every pile of papers we have contains an issue of the New Yorker. There are almost more New Yorkers in our apartment than silverfish. Does anyone want a stack to read?

I found an essay about maddened birds that I must have overlooked the first time through, read it, revised the essay, and submitted it. Now I am convinced that it is flippant and shallow and will terribly wound my mother.

radfrac_archive_full: (Harold Ross of the New Yorker)
Or particularly over the left manibular first molar.

It appears that this will be the summer of teeth. It's always good to have a unifying theme.

Today: checkup, x-rays, general dismay on the part of my tender-hearted dentist. She is actually the daughter of my previous dentist, who retired in the interval between my being told to come back in six months and my actual return, being some four years in all, and encompassing a protracted sojourn in Vancouver.

This delay was not, you will be calculating, a good idea. There is talk of a root canal. There are other inflammatory pronouncements. Thursday next is the day of discovery, the crisis of the teeth, the great excavation. After that, we will know more.

The dentist seems to face this upcoming ordeal with much more dread than I feel. I confess I'm curious. What, my idle mind idly wonders, will a root canal be like?

Fscking terrible? Or just medium awful?

Anyway, that is where the money, real and pretend, is all going to go this year. I forget who said, though, that suffering might make us artists, but having a sore tooth does no one any good.



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