I have the hiccups. Just now I tried to make like I didn't for the benefit of my friends (as if they'd care), but they noticed soon enough and offered their sympathy. Like I need their sympathy. Like I need anyone. 'Cause I DON'T. I don't need anyone! I don't need anything! I'M FINE (hic), OKAY, JUST FINE! (hic) I DON'T NEED ANY(hic)THING!
I hate the hiccups.
I don't know why people get so upset about kids without costumes trolling for candy on Halloween. A lot of people seem to really, really hate that, and in a way I guess I can see why, but listen: Everyone bitches about kids staying inside watching TV and being so disassociated from their communities, and then everyone bitches when they do venture outside and go around talking to their neighbors on the one night it's socially acceptable to do so. So maybe they're a little old. So maybe they're not a little old but their parents didn't buy them a costume and they didn't have the wherewithal to put one together. So what? If you take the time to walk up to my door and say hi under any circumstances, I'll be more than happy to give you 20 cents' worth of shitty candy.
Finally, I liked my oral-surgeon-to-be (so many engagements lately!) just fine, and he seems competent enough, if a bit overconfident. But two things, Mr. Oral Surgeon:
1. You might think framed photos of yourself playing polo are a tasteful way to decorate your office and something pleasant for your patients to look at, but be warned, as much as your services cost, a bit of resentment might be expected. I understand you and your colleagues' expertise comes at a premium--I'm almost positive I wouldn't seek out the services of Crazy Jay's Discount Extraction and Implantorium even if it were an option--but I've done the math, and after insurance, I'm pretty sure the removal of my tooth and the replacement you're pushing would at least buy you a decently bred polo pony's back legs. So don't expect me to be too impressed with your cool little hobby in this particular situation, is all.
2. (And this applies to dentists everywhere) The Magic Blahdeeblah-point-blahhhhh radio station is not relaxing. It is not blandly acceptable. It is not okay. It is an incitement, an insult, an abortion. Nothing I will ever see or hear in a dentist's office will make me as tense and as susceptible to pain as Peter Cetera's solo career, not even the terrible whine of the drill nor the agonized screams of other patients. Really, is nice sweet beautiful silence really so awful?
Oh, crap. I still have the hiccups. I hope they clear up in a few days, or else I may have troubles.
The hell with this. I'm going to bed. There's no trouble there, so far as I know.