Dental Health

I’m at the dentist’s office, and I’m lying in his supersonic hydraulic La-Z-Boy chair with a peach/mango/kiwi/kumquat/kittenbrain smoothie in one hand and a candy cigarette in the other, as he goes through my mouth, tooth by tooth, in search of treasure. I’m all cute, in my snappy low-rise wide-leg three-button-front grayish/olivish Joie pants, form-fitting (and oh, what a form to fit!) black halter top, too cute for words belt, and black crisscross sandals, my hair all carefully tousled, lips still pouty despite the no-lipgloss-while-at-the-dentist common sense rule, all boppy and peppy and zippy. I am “It”. I am, as others say, “The Shit”. Until I turn my head ever so slightly to the right and get a grand gander at the TV-like screen on which I see the reason why I’m at the dentist’s office in the first place, magnified (via a super-duper miniature camera/wand/telescope/prod thing) who knows how many times (a kajillion is my best guesstimate) and in fuller color than even my wildest dreams could have presented.
“You wake up, you think you’re cute, you bop along the street like you’re adorable, you’re in your little outfit, and then you come here and you’re devastated!” I said to Dr. H.
And then he finished pulling my teeth (all of ’em!) and replaced them all with raisins, just like I’d requested!