Current mood:

anxious

toofs
I have lovely teeth. I have fantastic teeth. They are a little yellow but hey, human teeth are yellow. The white ones are lying. Dentists have told me that people would kill to have teeth as nice as mine. I could probably chew rocks with them. One of them was always chipped--the left front one--it came in that way in fourth grade and had never been any less stalwart than its fellows.

Then I fell down the stairs and landed on my face, about five years ago. I broke two of my perfect, wonderful teeth. They were replaced with crowns, very soon, but I will never forget the feeling of the jagged broken edges. Horrible. Horrible.

Yesterday evening I discovered that one of my bottom teeth has slightly chipped. There again is that delicate, ragged edge, that tiny rough corner that fills me with fear. Is it cracked? Will it have to be sanded down like my poor top teeth into a useless little nub, and covered with a sheath made out of porcelain, gold, diamonds, platinum, and the dreams of innocent virgins? ACK! ACK ACK ACK.

I need to stop chewing rocks.