Bite Me, Tooth Fairy

Today I had a tooth pulled. It needed to be done, don't get me wrong, and I was just glad to have the money to get it done, now that AZ medicaid has been slashed to hell. The dentist is all kinds of wonderful, and is liberal with the laughing gas. The thing I hate most about it, aside from the obvious pain, is the fact that it hampers my ability to talk. You've got to keep that gauze clamped in your new bloody mouth hole until the clot forms, after all.

I never realized how much I really do talk to myself until I couldn't do it. Here I am, waiting for my antibiotics and painkillers, doing a little grocery shopping, praying I can get that sweet sweet Percocet home before the rest of the Novocaine wears off and I hear coming from the next aisle over:

"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."

This voice could not have belonged to anyone over 30, and as someone who lives with a woman in her fifties and in need of 2 new knees, I thought this person was being just a tad over-dramatic. Onward I shopped and I met saw this suffering woman in the flesh. She didn't even have a limp. Skinny jeans proved she had no cast or brace, not even a bandage to give reasonable doubt to a bad scrape. She was bouncing back and forth across the baking aisle showing her muffin-topped companion all the wondrous things she found. Like...JELLO. I'm trying to scope out some quick bread mix and this silly woman is like the ADHD Vanna White of the baking aisle! And I can't talk! On the outside I'm glaring but on the inside I am bellowing, "MOVE YOUR HYPER HIPSTER ASS OR BETTY CROCKER'S GONNA HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY RIGHT UPSIDE YOUR HEAD!"

Then just as I get by (her muffin-topped friend was very polite and much more aware of her surroundings) I hear Hipster Girl say:

"This says it's good with caramel sauce. We need to get some caramel sauce! Wait, what's caramel sauce?"

No, I couldn't have heard that right, I told myself. I refuse to believe that is what I heard. Even stoners know what caramel sauce is. Hell, especially stoners know what caramel sauce is!

"Seriously, what the fuck is caramel sauce?!"

And dear readers, I had an epiphany. I may not be able to talk, but I got my feelings across perfectly and discovered that nothing beats a well-timed FacePalm.

I didn't turn around but I have the distinct feeling they saw me. I heard nothing more of caramel sauce, but I'll be damned if I didn't hear one last utterance as I swerved my way into the pasta aisle:

"I wish I could cut my fucking leg off, I swear to God."

Never did find my bread mix.