RIDERS ON THE STORM

Imagine taking a dull, but pointed, hunk of iron and pressing it as hard as you can into the center of your molar. Imagine that pressure being consistent for days. This is the worst kind of pain because it doesn't come all at once. It's not the sharpest or most excruciating pain, but it is agonizingly continuous. It's kind of like that Chinese Water Torture thing. The thought of being strapped in place with water dripping on your forehead doesn't seem so bad at first, but after days, months, or years it would feel like having a drill bit slowly piercing its way through your skull.
I hate going to the dentist. Just the words "root canal" bring knots of painful nausea to my stomach. They told me I couldn't be put under for my visit. “Happy Gas” was the best they could do. I've had that shit before when they took out my wisdom teeth, and let me tell you, there is nothing at all happy about that fucking stuff. The gas wore off 20 minutes into the operation and left me fully aware of the crunching, grinding, and explosive pain of bone being torn from bone. Happy Gas my ass! The Jews at Auschwitz were told that their gas was "happy" too.
This time I think I'll go in with a backup plan. It involves a fifth of Jack Daniels and a Doors CD. Right before my appointment I'll get shitty drunk, then sit in the dentist's chair pretending I'm Jim Morrison. Maybe I'll think that the whole thing was a drunken, rock star-style, hallucination, complete with some Indian medicine man floating above me chanting and tickling my teeth with a feather.
"The tooth. Remember the tooth."
Fuck. I hate going to the dentist.