Dispatch from poor-decision-making hell

I fucked up and never took care of my teeth. That’s why this morning’s scary root canal just metastasized into a full-on emergency extraction. Don’t worry—even though the root canal was a failure, we still owe them a shitpile of money.

The tooth soon-to-be extracted was one of two anchors for a lower partial plate. Now I will wobble top and bottom. Forever, or for life, depending on which comes first.

By the time I get to the tooth-puller at noon, the drugs they gave me for the root canal this morning should just be wearing off.

Then I will come home and thank my lucky stars that I still have a job to scramble to complete in time to make our regularly-scheduled press deadline. And try to stay awake and coherent enough to get the job done.

And I won’t be eating. Haven’t all day, except for a potpourri of heavy megatonnage meds.

This is the sort of thing, why I don’t blog anymore. Who wants to remember?

Except for politics. I’m thinking of jumping all over tonight’s GOP debate, if I’m at all conscious. You just don’t see this kind of bloodsport on basic cable these days.

Mostly, I see it in the dentist’s chair.