The day has come.
The day to get this meth-head lookin tooth out of my dang face.
I chickened out this morning. See, I have to go to this really ghetto joint - I have no insurance - and bring proof of income and blah blah blah. They usher you back to this cubicle with suspiciously vintage equipment (which in any other situation would simply delight you). A dentist-type person comes in, hastens you backwards in the green vinyl chair with assuages that you'll be fine. The only comfort is that it is almost the worst thing you'll have to go through and it might be over soon.
Here is the song I'm using as a calming potus for the ears:
Thurston Moore - Psychic Hearts