Dental Dilemma

Most of the teeth in my mouth are rotting away and there’s nothing that I can do about it.

I don’t have dental insurance, nor can I afford it.

It looks like I’m stuck with emery boards and pliers.

Emery boards file down sharp, broken teeth that start to stab me in the cheek.

Pliers…well, I would have to be drunk as fuck and completely desperate, like that movie where Tom Hanks uses an ice skate to slam a tooth loose.

If he can do it, so can I!

Eating is a delicate, slow task. I’ve been practicing eating puree foods.

Anything crunchy scares me, like please no, I do not want a potato chip, thank you Aunt Edna (who doesn’t really exist, remember?)

I come from a family of bad teeth. All the dental floss and fancy toothbrushes over the years has done nothing to keep this cluster-fuck of a mouth of mine from going bad on me.

I don’t smile much, not because I don’t feel like it, no, it’s because I’m embarrassed to be seen with these funky chompers.

Unfortunately, about 130 million Americans lack private dental coverage. That includes 22 percent of children between ages 1 and 17, 40 percent of adults between 21 and 64 and 70 percent of seniors age 65 and older. When families can’t afford dental care, they skip it.

If you have dental insurance, go get a nice root canal.

I want pictures.


Anonymity is pretty fucking neat.

Well, a few of you know who I really am. If you’d do me a solid and keep that knowledge to yourself, I’d be forever grateful.

But if you have no idea who I really am behind this crazed drawing of a woman handling sharp scissors, I’m a seasoned blogger with 6 years of experience. (Hire me for your next event!)

I recently decided to start over fresh as a completely different persona. But I’m still me.

Mind boggling, isn’t it?

When you have family and friends reading your writing…well, it makes it awkward sometimes. Like for example, how could I share that my Aunt Edna smells like fish-heads?

This clothespin fucking hurts.

I don’t have an Aunt Edna, but if I did, I’d have to keep that nugget all to myself, which would be a damned shame.

To get right to the truth of it, my cheating ex-husband played a large part in building my old blog and I started to become sickened by it. (As my name here suggests, I am not normal.)

I’d develop a panic attack when I went to start writing something. Not fun, not good and the more I thought about it, I realized that I had a legit phobia going the fuck on here.

Blogophobia, I suppose.

But now being anonymous, it gives me the freedom to write about whatever the hell I want to without any filters. Now I see why there are so many bloggers who decide to go incognito.

Until next time, remember, don’t be an asshole.

Abbey  11/25/18

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