Tomorrow morning, I will have a tooth ripped out of my face. This molar is an incredible son of a bitch and must be stopped at all costs. In fact, I strongly suspect that it knows it's time is near, because it's been stabbing at my jaw all day with its infected roots. Well, it isn't infected at the moment, but it used to be due to a crack in its otherwise pristine shell. You see, pent up rage and frustration is sometimes manifest in intense jaw tension. On a particularly evil day, I could probably turn coal into diamonds with the rottweiler-like pressure my mouth produces. So, rather than an ulcer, I have a cracked molar. And I want the bastard pried from my gums (with a goddamned backhoe if need be).
I keep envisioning the dentist having to place a foot on the side of my face in order to get more leverage in pulling the little shithead out, Looney Tunes style. I also fantasize about a pen's width column of blood spewing out of my face and right into the dentist's eye. Or, ideally, the molar is yanked from my maw with enough force to startle the dentist and the ejected tooth goes careening into the air and out of the window, where it embarks on a journey of self-discovery with a false tooth character called Denny. My tooth and Denny learn life lessons including that one can overcome adversity (such as my tooth being cracked) and that there is no such thing as a "false tooth," just "false intentions." And an Elton John song will swell over the credits as we see the unlikely pair of friends walk into the sunset...or into the mouth of that chick who played the Borg 7 of 9.
Dare to dream.