Oh, back to the dentist. The continuing drama. There has never been anything wrong with my teeth, it has been my gums that are causing the problem.
My old East Melbourne dentist always seemed to be pissed off with me. I stretched a six month appointment out to eight months. I hadn't given up smoking and, unbeknownst to her, I didn't go to the periodontist when she instructed me. All in all, our relationship had run its course and I've changed to a lovely St Kilda dentist. It's a bit further, sure, but he has lovely blue eyes and an easy manner. And he's gay, which isn't a prerequisite, but it's nice none the less.
When I told him that I'd buggered my knee jogging, he said, it’s not your knee you're supposed to bugger.
I know, I said. And it doesn't hurt the same, either.
Where, all I got from Stella was, Don't make me responsible for your dental hygiene.
No... no, of course not, I bleated... a little confused. It is my responsibility... personal responsibility and all that, I guessed?
But you know, a bit later, once I'd got home, I thought, Don't make you responsible for my teeth? What? You are the dentist? Essentially, it was that remark that made me trade Stella in for Martin – pissed off by the responsibility comment, I ask my doctor to recommend a new dentist
Anyway, my gums have been anaesthetised for a deep clean on the problem pockets. I tried talking on the phone, straight afterwards, but my mouth wasn't working properly and I descended into laughing at myself, the retard, on the corner of Ackland and Barkly streets, as my mate, Jill, asked me what was wrong. All I could do was laugh, as my lips felt like they were twisting around on each other, as Jill's voice became more alarmed, which, of course, made me laugh even more.
Her father had fallen down some stairs and she was in hospital and not wanting to be toyed with.
I guess that means lunch is off, I said, sounding, not unlike, Frankenstein... maybe, a gay Frankenstein... now, there's an image to take to bed with you, boys.
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