After years of trying to acquire as much knowledge and wisdom as possible, the inevitable occurred: I got too darn much wisdom, and some has to be extracted.
In other words, I’m getting all four of my wisdom teeth extracted tomorrow morning. The surgery is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. and it’s supposed to take only 90 minutes from the time I show up until I’m heading home again. The surgery itself? Only 30 minutes! They really have this down to an art form, eh?
I’m quite nervous right now. Not about the procedure itself, but about the aftermath. I’ve only had one other surgery (my nose, from when I attempted to catch a softball with my face instead of my glove, recall) and waking up out of the anesthesia was wretched. And I hurt so badly for the next, like, two weeks or something. But I have been reassured that getting wisdom teeth removed is small potatoes compared to having the bones in a nose rebuilt, and I’m hoping that’s very true. I just don’t like knowing that I’m voluntarily doing something to myself that’s going to leave me feeling like crap, even for a couple of days. Then again, as my wisdom teeth are starting to come in, they’re making my jaw ache fiercely and giving me headaches, so I guess if I were to avoid having them removed, that too would actually be “intentionally doing something to myself that will leave me feeling like crap.” Catch-22.
Let’s just hope that the removal of my wisdom teeth won’t also result in the removal of “my powers.” Who can forget, after all, the humor-removal that followed Chandler Bing’s removal of his nubbin? It’s a cautionary tale, ya’ll.
Speaking of cautionary tales and hillbilly greetings, I guess now’s not a good time to try to sneak up on the Spears-Federline household to take some family candids. You know, unless you want a bullet in the leg. I bet the photos will be totally worth it though. Papparazzi. God love ‘em, they keep my magazines stocked with goodies and I never have to place myself in the treacherous positions necessary to get those pics. (Yeah, that’s right, Mel Gibson, with the papparazzi-inspired, eponymous stupid self-righteous ode to celebrities’ “Leave me alone, don’t look at me” squeal for privacy that utterly bombed at the box office . . . yeah, I went there.)
Oh, and speaking of celebrity? How freakin’ cool is it that my dear and good Friend Jennifer Aniston finally dished some dirt on Le Divorce Heard Round The World in Vanity Fair? I don’t have a subscription, so you know I’ll be hunting down a copy of that one. She actually razzed him on his bleached-blonde hair! Which, yeah. Totally. But I’ve heard he’s corrected that error since then, so what to mock him for now? Oh yeah–ditching Jen! I mean, Angelina’s a fox, no doubt, and her kids are gorgeous. But Jen? Did you see the couture that woman has in her closet? Seriously, I would marry her, for that reason alone. Plus, I bet she’s a hoot to go bowling with. You can just tell.
Hmmmm. “Too much wisdom” seems rather improbable in light of the above musings, eh?
Good night for now . . . when next I return, I’ll most likely be four-teeth lighter. And high as a kite on some pain med. So I disclaim now any weird Fantasia-esque ramblings I may deem worthy of publishing in my percocet-induced haze.
Take care, thanks for reading… and check 6!
P.S. Moment of silence & much-deserved props for the late, the great, Mr. Peter Jennings. You all know my rampant loathing for mass media and those that promulgate its evil (yeah, you think I’m kidding), but Jennings always seemed like a stand-up guy. In a world of Geraldos, Jennings was an incomparable stand-out. R.I.P.
Labels: all about me
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I’m Marissa, can-do-ologist, perpetual Curious George, and daily adventurer. 
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