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My teeth are clean, my phone is really broke and I am inconsolable about both.
Thanks to the brick-laying hands of my dental hygienist, my teeth haven't looked this white in years. Really, it was like watching Lydia the Italian chef thoroughly knead dough, only there was a sort of metal hook thing moving around in those pudgy power-filled paws. And so a whole five or six years of build-up is lost to my mouth, and the more delicate nostrils of those around me.
And so it was that I found myself at my second appointment of the day, which is saying something. I haven't actually made it to a non-cranial-sacral-therapy appointment in years, let alone two non-cranial-sacral-therapy appointments in one day. I even missed a few cranial-sacral ones along the way, which left me bereft in a different dimension. So I found myself nestled up to the Genius Bar talking to an Asian man in a cheerfully blue t-shirt with a very short haircut, visual memories of bad skin passed and clear eyeglasses fashioned out of tortoise shell Ray Bans. Thoroughly unhelpful, but with that sort of kind countenance that has you skipping away like you'd just been handed a cupcake with the normal non-shitty, non-fancy buttery-crap frosting you have to endure from those snarky cupcake bakeries that sprung up seemingly everywhere around town a few years ago. This world has me down, dear reader: clean teeth and still clinging to radio silence.
Wait a minute, I feel great!