Pshaw! I can sit for hours taking warped pictures. What innocent fun! If every child in the world had a nifty little Macbook, the world would be a better place. Now, I'm making MYSELF sick with this ridiculous talk.
Back to reality.
I have completely overhauled my office to cater to my creativity. It used to be pristine and rich in design. Now, it's rich in tools and lacking interior design. I LOVE it! I'm actually NOT worried about it not "flowing" with the rest of the room. Who cares!?! I'm having fun with all of the new gadgets I bought myself.
My gazillion pounds of alginate arrived the other day. Anyone need a dental impression?
I was thinking about something last night. (Yes, I do think on occasion.)
What if I WERE to give people dental impressions for the fraction of what their dentist would, AND make it a worth-while time, too?!?!?!? I could be the "fun dentist!" Okay. Here goes. Everyone hates going to the dentist. From the first THOUGHT of having to go, from leaving the parking lot, it's a horrible experience. First, you pull up to an out-dated, '70s style building with dark brown paneling outside. Yuck. Once you actually get INTO the office, you're not anymore impressed. You pay attention to any lingering cobwebs or dirt smudged on the registration counter. Then you sit in an aqua-marine dusted chair with worn-down brown arm rests that you wonder how many dirty-fingered children had smeared with their germs. And you wait, nervously, for the heavy-set nurse to tromp out of her snacking quarters to YELL your name even though you're the only one in the waiting room. Oh God. Now it's on.
Then come a couple of hours of gagging from the HUGE plastic-covered metal plates they attempt to shove in the back of your throat to x-ray your teeth. Ah-ha! You finally feel what deep-throating is like, and understand why most women can't do it.
Good for you.
After you think you've reached your limit, you're escorted to actually visit with your dentist. Your eyes are watery and your stomach queasy from the dry-heaving you've been enthusiastically participating in. Well, at least you lost several hundred calories from your diaphram and stomach heaving themselves against your chest cavity. There's a plus point.
Now, you're half-sitting, half-lying in an old-fashioned patient chair. As your eyes delicately follow the outlines of the intricate metal holding your ass two feet in the air, you wonder if it'll give, so you just don't move that much. You ponder the chair. How many people had root canals in this thing fifty years ago with no pain reliever? Better yet, how many people were tortured in it? You slide your hand along the smooth leather seat, and your sweaty fingers fight to glide along. Your palm skids abruptly from the moisture, and you smirk.
How many people have had SEX in this chair?!??!
Great. Now you're horny.
Not so fast. Your wantin' for lovin' is quickly interrupted by the overwhelming and sudden presence of rubbing alcohol. The party in your pants is over.
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