Putting your face through a sheet of glass, reading mommy blogs

I wanted to keep the whole Montgomery Ward old job thing going today, but I’m in pretty bad shape, and don’t think I can work on it right now. I had another session at the dentist today, and it was damn brutal. First, they did some kind of advanced, deep cleaning which required Novocaine first, and then involved horrible scraping with implements of torture and an ultrasonic probe. About halfway through the cleaning, I was ready to confess to any war crimes which with they wanted to accuse me of committing. They only did the upper half, but after that was done, it looked like my mouth went through a plate-glass window. The gums were pushed back and bleeding like hell. I then went from that to another room where they drilled out one of my upper teeth and did a root canal. That honestly didn’t feel anywhere near as bad. The real pain is that it cost $200, and my insurance is now out for the year. I will go back next month for a post insertion and $250 out of my own pocket, and then I get a crown fitted after the new year, when the insurance slate is cleaned.

No pain meds, of course. And when I was walking home, I passed one of those meat on a stick and sausage carts, the kind that spray their exhaust smoke of burning meat all over the place, to attract customers or scare away vegans or whatever. And the foul, burning flesh smell was EXACTLY what it smelled like when the DDS drilled through the tooth and into the infected pulp. This smell is why I can never eat Salisbury steak again.

I think I’m sick of the BlogExplosion thing already, although I might mess with it more when I’m bored. Part of the problem is that I cannot read another god damned mommy blog again, and they make up about 83% of the blogs on there. (The other 17% are boring political threads.) A lot of people accuse me of being “jealous” when I start to fill with vitriol over the whole mommy-machine thing.

And I’ll be honest, I am jealous. I mean, I don’t want to have a kid, but it must be nice to have something in your life that was so easy to conceive that is held in such high regard by most of the population. I mean, I spend my free time working on these damn books that only six people will ever read and most people will never understand, yet if you walk into a room with an infant, it’s like you’re the first caveman discovering fire, and everyone praises you. And I know that it’s hard being a parent, and there’s so much fear that you’ll do the wrong thing or your kid won’t turn out right or will get hurt or whatever. I take for granted things like dangerous chemicals or frayed wiring or busy streets or internet porn or whatever else, and I know parents need to be on alert all the time for their kids. (Some parents aren’t, but that’s a topic for another rant another time.) Anyway, I sit around the house on a Saturday night wondering why do I even write, and why should I start another book that nobody will read, and how will I ever stop this antisocial cycle and get on with my life – or will I ever – and I think it must be wonderful to have worries like coming up with Halloween costumes for your kids or something. It’s the same kind of contempt I have for musicians or painters or sculptors, because they can make something that people can see and touch and say “I get it”. Musicians get laid. Painters are respected. Everyone who got through the third grade thinks they can write because they can put words together, and that makes putting 250,000 words together just a matter of repetition that anyone could do if they didn’t have important things to do, like having kids and going to the gym.

And I guess a lot of this is the between-book “is anybody out there” sort of depression I always fall into, the kind where I wonder if I should just give it all up and go to a sports bar and find out what team I should cheer on and drink some lite beer and buy some fucking dockers and just get it over with. But I know I couldn’t do that either, and I know I will always have trouble with people, and that’s what makes me write. If I was a shiny, happy person, I’d have no need to write. So I feel stuck writing. And my teeth hurt, and these potato chips probably aren’t helping.

I think that’s all for now. I need to try eating this Subway sandwich and then listen to some death metal to calm down.


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