Oral B-yotch!

I'm getting older and more mature. I know that I'm aging by the myriad little signs that I see everyday: more gray hairs, slower metabolism, indigestion from greasy foods. Unfortunately I have to look a bit harder to see evidence of maturity -- I still watch the Cartoon Network, and I am easily distracted by things like yo-yo's at the checkout line. But the signs are there, hidden within the mundane activities of my everyday life. The latest one? I've become a regular flosser.

As embarrassing as it is to admit, I've never been much of a flosser. I blame my lack of enthusiasm on several scarring experiences at the dentist's office, where, lying helpless on the chair, blinded by the weirdo spaceship light, I was the victim of a sadistic dental hygienist and her waxy garrot wire. I've never understood why all those mean spirited assistants couldn't be bothered to ease the floss down between my molars. Instead, they always seemed to relish snapping it like a bowstring in my mouth. And then, the telltale wincing, bleeding and swelling followed by, "Have you been flossing regularly?". Oh the shame! Is it not enough that you maim me? Must you judge me as well?

Well, now that I've conditioned my gums nightly for the past several months, I think I'm ready to face a dentist again. Hell, I'm more than ready -- I'm excited! I look forward to staring deep into my toturer's eyes as she (are all dental hygienists women?) tries her damndest to break me. I bet it'll ruin her day when I just lay there gape-mouthed, uncrying, and triumphant. Or maybe she'll give me a wink and induct me into the secret society of straight-A dental patients, where all that's wrong with your teeth can be fixed immediately with a magical toothbrush. Yeah, that'll be fucking great.

Oh wait, I forgot about the pointy plaque-scraping hook of death. Goddamn I hate dentists!