This much pain had better be good for me.

It was time once again for a trip to the dentist. This morning, I drove over to the office and plunked myself into the chair. My hygenist is Sherri; she's nice, in a grandmotherly sort of way. She's always smiling and always asks about my schooling, expressing concern if things are worrisome, and pleasure towards anything that sounds happy.

But oh, how she brutalized me. I spent my checkup with my legs fully extended and clamped together at the ankles. My hands were firmly grasped around my belt and it wasn't the first time I'd been glad to be wearing a belt for an appointment. She poked and prodded my jaw and gums in all sorts of unpleasant ways.

"Pocket depths look good." I smile as best as one can with a metal hook in mouth. Pocket depths are something I've worked on previously, so this seems like good news. More poking. More pain. Turns out I have lots of plaque buildup and perhaps the very beginnings of some gum disease around my two false teeth.

As a result of that tooth-replacement, I'm no fan of dental work. All the poking doesn't endear me. But it just keeps being necessary, so I make with the grinning and bearing. After about forty-five minutes of feeling my head being abused, I was ready to divulge the location of the secret rebel base.

Sorry, Dantooine.