Why is it that most of my blog entries begin with the fact that I have nothing to say? I could do another meme–lord knows there’s plenty out there–but I’m not in a self revealing sort of mood. Really, I’m feeling kind of frightened.
Why? you ask. Well, let me tell ya.
I have a date (no, not that kind of date) with an oral surgeon in the morning. Wisdom teeth. Four of ’em. They’ve gotta come out, says my dentist. So I’m going to see Dr. Neal to get his opinion (and I think I know what that’s going to be, damnit). He’ll surely do some poking, some mmm-ing and ahha-ing. And then it’ll come. The ‘you gotta get ’em out’ spiel.
Really I don’t know what I’m more afraid of: 1) final confirmation that this needs to happen, 2) the procedure itself or 3) the bill.
I feel like a big chicken. And maybe I am. But you know what? Sometimes a chicken’s gotta cluck.
I’ve no idea what that means, but it seems like a fitting end to this pathetic entry.