I'll Have a Side of Salmonella with That

I hate irony sometimes.  It figures that the girl whose cupboard boasts four types of sugars and three kinds of chocolate would be the one needing the extensive dental work.  What doesn't figure into it is that I don't typically eat my own confections.  It's a beautiful thing, really.  Baking for catharsis, that is.  By the time a cake is cool and frosted, it has already given me all the pleasure a baked good can offer.  The enjoyment is in its creation, not consumption.  So, in the end, I am left happy and my roommates are left fat.  That's a win-win if I've ever seen one.  However these days I am not feeling like much of a winner.  I feel like a loser.  One who has lost $2400 (or, rather, will be gradually losing it over the next eighteen months).  The best part of this is knowing it is my fault.  I'm not going to lie to you.  I'm trying really hard to [inconspicuously] tip the blame onto someone else's plate (namely my father from whom I received such bad dental genes), but, truth be told, I should have seen this coming.  I have a strong hatred for dentists with their soft, indescript jazz and floss wielding fingers. I hate spitting into that whirring suction funnel, probably because when I was small my sister convinced me that I could be one of the "lucky" children that gets sucked away to a land filled with loose teeth that would gnaw on me all night long. (And people wonder why I slept with a night light till I was 12.) So, I avoid the dentist and his suction cup of doom like the plague and I choose not to floss most nights because the tips of my fingers are quite fond of oxygenated blood. Well, these two things, or, rather, the lack of these two things, have lead to seven dentist appointments in six weeks.


I started the above post a couple months back, fresh off an impromptu root canal. I never got around to finishing it, something that happens to me often, not just when I'm hopped up on Novocaine. Every time I have gone back to finish this one, and others, writer's block rears its ugly head and I sit there, fingers poised above my little laptop ("Lappy", as I tenderly refer to him) waiting for inspiration to hit. It doesn't. I have been itching to post this particular one, however, because I am mesmerized by the number of commas in the final sentence. Five. I like that.


So, I'm just going to go for it and post this one unfinished. Just think of it like munching on raw cookie dough. And even if you are the kind that prefers warm, golden brown cookies over the gooey salmonella-laced kind, you're out of luck. Oven's broken. Sorry. Enjoy the salmonella in all its unfinished glory.