Sweettooth vampyr.

Yesterday I went to the not-dentist-but-the-lady-that-'cleanses'-your-teeth-as-it-were. I already went to the dentist
a few weeks ago, twice. Now this. I been brushin' me teeth nice and proper like so I shouldn't be fearin' for me life,
yet I couldn't rid myself of utter angst whilst walking through that door. She ain't that bad, though. She knows me well
enough to keep me talking -except for when she really gets into it, if you know what I mean- so I don't have the mind to
fuss and sputter. We talked about getting her kid in some casting agency. She remembered I did the odd modelling jobs so
figured I'd know 'bout that shit. I suspect she damn well knew 4yo casting and this supposed 'fashion' stuff ain't
correlatin' nowhere but she played dumb, keeping me going. Then she poked wrong.

I said 'Ow'.
She said 'What the fuck'.

I didn't like that, all thoughts 'bout lil' youngins and yoghurt-commercials evaporated, snow and sun and all that. She
poked again, for good measure. My face must've been a mask of 'How dare you, traitor!' for she apologized. Turns out I
have another cavity. A small one. Angstface. Thing is, it's like, weird. It's in my lower fucking canine. My right.

I told her I never heard of no canine-cavities. She told me she didn't either. I freaked.

Who the fuck has cavities in their fucking canines anyway? What the hell did I do? Leeched off too many drunkards?
Sucked too much whisky-infested blood? Drained too many twinkies? Slurped too much gula djawet out kelepons? Polished my
teeth with chocolate sauce? The only thing I remember sucking ain't got shit to do with sugar and sweet, I can tell you
that. So what, do I need to start dieting now? Only thirst after diabetes patients?

How the fuck did that sonuvabitch dentist even miss it? Oh, yeah. Because he doesn't fucking check for holes in canines.
Because nobody would ever fucking think of searching canines for cavities. I can't even blame the faggot. I mean, hell.
It's not like it's a spot you miss brushing. Nothing hard to reach, nothing out of sight.

I'm storming headfirst into a dentist-infested year, of five visits instead of my already much despised usual two. Happy
fucking Sinterklaas. Or Thanksgiving. If this is yer thanks I'd rather you keep it.

Who needs turkey twice a year anyway? Let alone twice a month? It ain't even that delicious. It's hyped up chicken.
Chicken on stereoids. Not like anyone ever holds to the whole let-us-all-forgive-eachother thing anyway. If your dad
fucked your new wife you're STILL gonna be mad at him, whether you've shared a gigantuous chicken or not.

While I'm at it, who can I blame for condemning me into playing Facebook games? I HATE FB games. Or at least I thought I
did. This running away from reality crap is catching up to me, all that's needed is a picture of some elf wench and some
magic words and I'm happy as a panda. I'm prone to addictions alright, just nothing of the physical kind. My brain's an
addict. My brain needs its kicks. Fiction kicks. How much shite is that?

That's it. To all my enemies, we've got a way to subdue me. Get rid of me. All you need to do is put me behind a desk,
chain me to my chair and cover me in things with names such as 'administration', 'rules', 'authorities' and 'society'.
Then put some butch bitch behind me who honestly could go by no other name than Frau Heckler, who screams 'WORK' every
time I let my mind wander off. Strip me of my imagination. Ding ding, success! Wonder if they make brain-sized bodybags.

Whatever. Tonight I'm gonna dream of swaffeling Angelina Jolie in the face with Jawbreaker, my newly acquired associate.

Nottingham can come too.