Four things, relevant:
1. That tooth, you know? That tooth?
The one. The wisdom tooth that has been on and off hurting like a motherfucking fuckass hellacious shitcuntfuckfuck for about a god-diddly-damn year, yesterday I went to the dentist I have the poem about and he yanked that horrible, rotted-out pseudo-tooth out of there.
Dr. Jones knew where Swansea was and what division their football team was and the dental assistant was cute with and without her mask and told me good luck with the writing. And now I don't have a toothache.
I do, however, need a root canal on the one right next to it.
Dear Money: I take back what I said. Let me hold you next to me. I love you. I need you.
Tonight and tommorrow, two volunteer shifts at Hugo House. The first one has free food and booze for volunteers, the second lets me sit and read and shelve zines for four hours.
We've gotten far enough on the Lights of Christmas that me taking a day off to attend to things like teeth and writing and going to Seattle is not a problem. Come November we'll be busy again, but right now we've got five people on two-person jobs.
Visiting Grandma gets more difficult as it becomes more necessary.