Dentist's Office Visit

Every other month or so, I like to report to my local dentist's office for a deep cleaning of my teeth.  I find the combination of bright lights, laughing gas, comfortable dentist's chairs, Xanax, and a little bit of novocaine to boost my creative reflexes to near superhuman levels.  The problem has always been that I can't remember the things I thought of after the gas and Xanax wear off.  (Don't laugh about my use of anesthetics, I have very sensitive gums as it would happen.)

As the dental technician goes about her work, I usually use the time to regale her with tales of my personal exploits, as well as explain the precise nature of my professional work (writing!) They are usually so enthusiastic about my work that they turn the concentration on the laughing gas to full blast, all the better to enhance my creativity. In this mentally ensconced state, I weave gorgeous literary creations on the loom of my mind, only to see them evaporate as the anesthetics and anxiolytics fade.

Today, I had a plan to remedy this however.  I would instruct the technician to write down my musings as I recited them out loud, and request that the attending dentist only administer just enough narcotics to keep my at my mental limen, a figurative foot in both world of conscious and unconscious thought.  Right away, the resistance begin though - the receptionist pointing out that I had my teeth cleaned the week prior when I attempted to make an appointment, and reminding me I had yet to settle the bill from THAT session.  Never the less, I insisted and she acquiesced, explaining that my insurance would not cover this particular visit.

I explained my plan to the dentist, who said he "understood" what I was requesting.  Narcotics were administered, and soon I found myself floating on a cloud of valium and laughing gas, and could hear in the distance the technician prepping her tools. I began to scan the landscape of my subconscious for inspiration, which suddenly burst forth from my mind like the morning sun over the horizon.  Sticking to the plan, I began describing in explicit detail what I saw, my notions on life, romance, God, and what it means to be human.  It was indescribably gorgeous.  In another universe, I felt the technician began working on my teeth.  My recitation continued as she dutifully recorded every utterance and detail.  I felt a warm cloud wrap around me and gently lift me out of my seat, then out of my body.

NO.

I became acutely aware of a presence surrounding me.  Godlike, perfect in logic and spirit.  It spoke to me through my mind with words that reverberated through my soul.  Every sentence perfect in grammar and punctuation  with the most lucid, otherworldly intelligence.  I have come into contact with my higher self.

HOW CAN SHE WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU'RE SAYING WHEN SHE'S CLEANING YOUR TEETH, DUMBASS?

The realization was like an earthquake in the depths of my heart.  I was being betrayed by this harpy.  I felt the fog of sleep begin to take me over, wantonly pulling my into oblivion.  This cannot be.  I must intervene  I must rescue the truth that has come before my eyes.  I must punish the betrayer...

I rally my will.  I fire every nerve I can.  I muster whatever strength is left within me to oppose the injustice occurring while I am chemically bound in the dentist's chair.

I bite.  I bite down as hard and fast as I can.  In a parallel dimension, I can hear startled shrieks of agony as I grind my jaw side to side.  There is a slap across my face, then several smacks with a closed fist.  They do not affect me.  I continue my grim mission.  My teeth are a vise. I must. I must....

I open my eyes.  I am in the dentist's chair, alone in the room.  There is a commotion in the front lobby.  I find my feet and clamber out of the chair, my gums dimly aching.  The dentist is suturing the technicians hand in the back office.  I join them and calmly explain that I need her to please tell me everything I said while at my psychic limen.  She looks at me with the kind of contempt only low-class people experience, and stammered through tears "You kept saying 'Poop! Poop! Poop!' and then out of nowhere you called me a bitch then bit the hell out of me!"

Useless, lying rube! I stand to admonish her and the dentist pushes me into the lobby in a way that almost knocks me over.  "GET THE HELL OUT." he snarls   Being too genteel to engage him in his idiotic physical confrontation, I opt to leave instead.  At least the drive home was inspiring - the narcotics made the concrete streets move like waves at sea, and inspired me to write a book about a whaling ship hunting an especially valuable whale, which I shall begin shortly.