New York Dentist
Tomorrow is the big day--I have a six hour appointment with an aged, crusty New York dentist whose bad breath and meadow-like ear hair at least provide distraction from the endless drilling into my tender, screaming root canal. I wonder how I got here. Yes, I took the subway and walked five blocks to the dingy squalor of his office, but really how did I come to this predicament. Why did my mouth and my senses deserve this? I should never have indulged in sugar. I should have at least made an appointment with a New York dentist where my aunt lives, up in Peekskill, New York. That way, I could have taken my tortured oral root structure out to lunch or for a hike after the strident drilling of another New York dentist.