Death by dentist

I have an appointment at the dreaded dentist's office today. It's allegedly a "consultation" in "preparation" for the "removal" of my wisdom teeth. Riiiiight. I am, and have been for quite some time now, suspicious of dentists, oral surgeons, orthodontists, and other breeds of tooth-related professionals. I wasn't always this way, nay--not before I had braces, that is. After enduring the dreaded mouth stretcher, annoying little rubber bands that break in your mouth and act like little bull-whips against your lips, tooth cement, permanent retainer (that thing will be in my mouth until I'm DEAD. And it'll still be there AFTER I'm dead.), and other such horrors, I now have a healthily flourishing fear of going to the dentist. And NO, this fear is not irrational. Braces are far too traumatic for a seventh-grader. I practically have dental PTSD.

I really don't like people touching my teeth. Seriously, how scary is it to have someone digging around inside your mouth while you stare bug-eyed into a bright examination lamp, all the while hoping that you won't gag on Dentist's fingers and up-chuck into her/his face? Meanwhile, you're feeling like a disgusting freak because a pool of spittle is slowly collecting beneath your tongue, and you are completely powerless because you can't swallow when someone's nasty rubber-gloved hands are poking at your molars. Humiliatingly enough, you have to wait for the dentist to realize that there's about to be a deluge of saliva, and then allow her/him to suck out the moisture with a vacuum-powered straw. Lovely. Just lovely.

Anyway, hopefully this "consulation" won't be too horrible. Wish me luck. Actually, save the wishing of luck for later. I'll need it a lot more when I actually have to get the blasted wisdom teeth ripped from my skull.