I have an appointment to see the dentist tomorrow, which should come as a source of deep consternation to me.
And don’t worry: it does.
I’m one of those grown-up-ish girls who doesn’t like to brush her teeth, as you might remember, and every year when it comes time to visit the good doctor (good doctor? Who am I kidding—the man’s a maniac with a drill), I spend about a week brushing furiously, trying to repent for my dental sins accumulated over the twelve months prior. But deathbed repentance is a cheap shot, and I’m always so transparent at the appointed hour—they can see right through me, and the x-rays only have a tiny bit to do with it. Granted, my gums never bleed at the dentist’s office because I floss daily—sometimes twice—but that’s my only saving grace, and it’s not enough. I live in perpetual fear of contracting adult cavities, a fate worse than adult acne, if you ask me. There’s no excuse for adult cavities , but at least people pity adult acne.
Not that I would know anything about adult acne. On account of how gorgeous I always am, even when there’s nobody to impress…
Anyway, wish me luck. I don’t deserve any, but I’d sure like to have some.