Some people don’t go to the dentist.
And some people don’t ever have anything go wrong with their teeth.
Those people are missing out on something beautiful in life.
This morning, I had to get two fillings. [because i love sour patch kids and hate brushing my teeth.]
My dentist [a goddess in jackson] asked if I wanted Happy Gas.
– Yes, please.
It’s amazing the thoughts that go through my head on that stuff.
First off, I immediately begin a strategy about how to mainline this stuff to my brain, and how to get the nurses to give me more.
[this is the happy gas phase where i’m convinced i’m a genius.]
I take deep breaths through my nose and exhale as little as possible through my mouth.
– Are you feeling the gas?
– Ummm… the Happy Gas? Oh, yeah, I guess I feel it a little…
[ha! i’m a genius! i got her so good! she’ll for sure turn it up!]
That was burst, though, when it took me about two minutes to realize the alarm on my phone, that was in my pocket, was going off… making a loud ringing noise. And when I realized it was mine, I said…
– Oh my gosh! That’s me! I’m so sorry! I just kept thinking, “Man, this place is fun… It has such fun noises!”
Speaking of noises. Then there’s the phase of Happy Gasing where I think every single song on my iPod is the best song in the whole wide world.
[ yes, ludacris. you are so right! hells yeah! this is the best song i’ve ever heard! i’m gonna put this on every mix i ever make.]
It’s a beautiful thing.
And then it really does get trippy. And I have a thought to myself…
[stuff like this is why people do drugs.]
My hands are on my hips, my hip bones. And I don’t even think about how weird this must look, laying down. It’s a signature stance for me in normal life, but laying down must look like how Superman sleeps.
My fingers on the bones of my hips and my breathing deeper than ever before. Feeling my stomach fade away further down with each breath. Becoming a canyon greater, deeper than any other depth. The fingers resting on my hips turn to tourists. Families of five on opposing lips of the canyon, fresh from the mini van, staring down. One family: red heads. The other: brown hair. Looking down, speechless for the first time in hours because of the endless abyss that stares back at them. The second to youngest in each family must make a snide remark… to keep up with their self-given stereotype and remind everyone that they don’t get along. Breathing deeper, I notice the peaks of my ribs making their presence known beside this canyon. The families notice, almost scared, and turn their stares to the mountains. The children ask what those peaks are called. The fathers don’t know, but they make something up to seem educated and important. The mountains shake their heads and laugh at the naive tourists and can’t wait until a knowing being stares up at them with a smile of recognition, with their legs dangled over the edge of the edge of the canyon, their hands comfortably set behind their head. Until they remove one hand to point to and name each ridge in the peaks present, like reciting poems about happiness.