So I like my dentist. Probably more than I should. Or at least probably more than most people like their dentist. But really, how often does a man gently touch my face and ask me how I’m feeling? All right then. But my dentist has a new assistant, and her I do not care for. And no, it isn’t jealousy. I mean, has he opened the office on a Saturday for her and come in wearing his board shorts and lookin’ all sorts of BOSS? I think not. But what, after her giving my tongue a hickey with the damn suction tube, not understanding that “I can feel that” actually means I CAN FEEL THAT AND IT DOESN’T FEEL GOOD, then asking me, while half of my face is numb, to smile- “no, smile BIG”- lady, not sure if you remember 10 minutes ago when ya’ll made my face resemble that of a stroke patient, but I CAN’T TELL IF I’M SMILING OR NOT, and then not taking me seriously when I mumbled that I actually couldn’t pry my mouth open with that death grip mold in there- “oh, you seriously can’t open your mouth?” No no, I can, I’m just having too much fun with putty smothered around my teeth that I figured I’d just hang like this until hopefully the mold legitimately hardens and I have to take all my food through a straw. And, AND- if you scrape that sharp pointy tool across my tongue one more time, please don’t be surprised if I scrape my knuckles across your chin. Thanks.