I had my wisdom tooth taken out last week. I had a conversation with it. A football one.
You’ve been with me for as long as I care to remember. After yet another night of twisted dreams and unconscious gum chewing, you’re there when my eyes blearily unstick. As the sunlight hits my retinas, a rush of pain shoots down my spine and swings back up again, pounding my brain. I know that it’ll be there for the rest of the day unless I numb it immediately with narcotics. You do this to me. My wisdom tooth. The wisdom tooth I call Levy.