Gum-prodder

I've never liked going to the dentist. It's not that my dentist is cruel. I've just has such problems with my teeth over the years. After five or six extractions, two impacted teeth, braces, and retainers, I think I've sufficiently lined my destist's pockets.

I had an appointment for a cleaning yesterday and the minute I smelled that icky dentist smell--you know, the latex-toothpaste-cleanser combination--I felt sick. And, ooooh, the blood! My dental hygienist is obviously a demon in disguise, practiced in the art of scaling torture. As I sat there staring up at her beady eyes while she was tearing up my gums, I can honestly say I HATED her.

"Miss Barnes, make sure you're flossing and using Listerene. There's a little bit of blood here." (Quite an understatement, because the last time I saw THAT much blood was during Ghost Ship.) I responded with a nod because she was busy prodding my gums with sharp tools. However, inside I was fumming. Obviously, this crazy lady had no idea how obsessive I am about dental hygiene. I carry floss with me and even own my own scaler, for goodness sake! If she didn't want to see blood, she should've stopped sticking her pick ax in my gums!

Torture, I tell you. This woman should work for the government. My only comforting thought is that I've got six whole months to go before my next visit.