Wisdom

Before class on Tuesday night, I wandered around Center City watching the snow fall. I wandered down Sansom Street, one of my favorite streets downtown. I walked past Nodding Head brewpub, past my old haunt Oscar's, the diviest of dives, and right into this:


Do I get a free psychic reading if I buy a soft pretzel? 'Cuz that'd be pretty cool.

Not the best photo, but the best thing! Imagine how awesome it would be if they had a "buy one, get one" deal! To be quite honest, I'd be a little afraid to get a psychic reading. I'd fear dire predictions, like on "Lost" when the psychic tells Claire all that creepy stuff about her unborn child. Nevermind, I'll just take the pretzel. (With extra-spicy brown mustard, please.)

After class, I pretty much immediately realized that I was in pain. For a day or two (or three) before, I'd become acutely aware of the fact that one of my bottom wisdom teeth was on its way in. No big deal, I thought. It would be my third wisdom tooth to come in, and the other ones were fine. (Were, not are, because I got a cavity in one and ended up having it pulled.) But the point is that having them arrive hasn't been a problem in the past, and my dentists have never suggested otherwise.

It turns out I need this one out. I had a terrible infection that caused me to lose a night of sleep and a day of work. And now, I get to lose at least two, if not all three, of my remaining wisdom teeth. Awesome.

Even better? Lemme tell you about my week next week: on Monday, I have jury duty. Again. I am one of those lucky people who gets called every year. You can ask my girlfriend (who never seems to get called); I'm totally cursed. If you have a good reason for me to give about why I shouldn't serve on a jury, now's the time.

Ok, so then, I have work Tuesday and Wednesday (provided I don't get called to serve on some crazy case.) Good. Work. Money. This will be the highlight of my week.

Thursday, I get to have oral surgery! Yay! I'm so pleased! My sadistic singing oral surgeon will vacillate between making gruff comments about my extreme anxiety and singing (yes, I said singing) "don't be afraid, this won't hurt" in operatic style. Did I mention he's tall, muscular, and has a military haircut? I dare not rebel. I'll just stare at the ornate opera mask framed on his wall (gay, gay, gay) and suffer my fate.

Next week is probably not going down in my "Top Ten Best Weeks Ever" list. Not unless Lou buys me a pony or something.


The only reason I'm not in the fetal position in the bathtub right now.

Ah, the sad collection of drugs keeping me alive. Not pictured? The amazing clay heat pack I microwave, insert into a purple sleeve, and strap to my face. That thing is amazing (though not really great for the ol' social life.)

Oh, did I mention I pulled my butt muscle? Yeah... Ouch.


Another spigot. Apparently, I can add them to my list of things I obsess over a bit. Locks, look out. You've got competition.

Uh... I bring you a random spigot. I just liked the way the green rust contrasted with the red brick. And I'm just tired of bitching about my stupid ailments.