(This, my root canal face.)

My dentist today alleged that my back right bottom molar had died. He told me how when teeth die, the body begins closing up their canals to protect the larger human organism.

Thanks, Doc. But I’m not buying. If my tooth is dead, how could be mutating into a demilitarized zone?

Thus, I propose that my tooth is either perfectly healthy (young and virile, in fact) and evolving into a higher state of being.

Or, it’s simply a zombie molar.

[Self-diagnoses like these continually remind me why I'd make an epic doctor.]

All this comes from that broken molar back Novemberbouts.
Apparently broken teeth necessitate root canals – which involve tearing out all the nerves and blood tissue in your teeth and dousing the empty vessel with bleach. What’s up with that? all of which necessitates lots of novacaine.

The novacaine came in several installments, since I apparently have oddly-placed nerves. [Fun-fact: the simple act if sitting up in your chair can team the drugs up with gravity to flower into your lower jaw.]

It’s terrifying wondering if you’re numb enough just as a guy prepares to drill into your tooth and scour its guts out.

It’s also surreal when you write a massive story on the disintegration of the middle class and then have to shop around for dentists who’ll take installment payments (Thank you, Dr. Josh Cochran) because your racket of an insurance company won’t cover your surgery. (Thank you, United Concordia) I should have that six-month emergency fund completed just about the time I begin collecting social security.

But, I digress.

Dentist’s offices now come with TVs so I watched Al Roker hang out in Illinois while the good doctor scrubbed me out with bleach.

My point is, this molar and ain’t deader than Al Roker, and it may be just as zombified.

And there’s a whole mouthful of gnoshers behind it, so keep on your toes, and watch your back.

I’ll return for the conclusion of my root canal later this month. I intend to take photos of myself as a drooling wreck. Stay tuned.