Tartar

today i went to the dentist. unlike most people, i don't have a pathological aversion to the dentist. i don't particularly enjoy an elder gentleman poking sharp metal instruments into my gums, and then acting bemused when they bleed, but it's not so bad. usually, i am playing some song by Queen in my head, and today it was "killer queen." i derive a disproportionate amount of joy from being praised by my dental hygenist on how well i brush and floss. it's kind of sad and pathetic that i aim to impress a 40 year old woman i see once a year, but by all accounts i am a sad and pathetic person.

continuing along this theme of me differing from most people, i don't see what's so damn great about dogs. dogs are like any other animal, except less interesting and they require you to pick up their feces with your hands. if i wanted to live with a useless ball of hair who slobbered all over the place, made loud and incomprehensible sounds, and forced me to clean up after it, i'd live with anna nicole smith. i can't imagine what dog would add to my life, except shave 3 seconds from my allotted "find my slippers" time, but this doesn't help me because: a) i don't have house slippers and b) i wouldn't immediately wear anything that was just in my dog's mouth. ironically enough, and what would this blog be without irony, i used to beg my father for a dog when i was younger. i thought my canine pal would make suburban life infinitely more interesting, what with all the ball throwing, running about with peals of gay laughter, and endless affection we would share with each other. of course, my father refused, and i was mercifully spared all those late night walks and bags of dog crap.

thanks dad, i owe you big.