gettin' in the way
December 27. 2000
i am oh so pathetic lately when it comes to photos for my entries:
at least my headphones are cool.
I went to the dentist today.
The first thing I was presented with upon entry into the room was a tv screen that would supposedly allow me to watch the dentist drill my teeth. When I respectfully declined this privilege, the hygenist looked very surprised and dare I say, a bit miffed at my refusal. Excuse me, do the majority of the people who set foot in this office somehow get off by watching their teeth drilled? It's disgusting.
I've had the same dentist my whole life, and precious few cavities. The last one I had filled was a good 7 or 8 years ago, so I didn't remember what the procedure entailed or even the level of pain involved. At one point during today's appointment, he had the gall (or insensitivity) to ask me if I was comfortable. When I shook my head no, he seemed surprised. No, my idea of comfortable does not involve you molesting my enamel with a drill so high pitched and shrill that it hurt my ears as much as my mouth.
In the end, I am just one big fucking baby when it comes to medical procedures. The pain was minimal as cavities go, and I walked out of there with a face and jaw that felt bloated and numb. Ew.
My parents and I went to see Cast Away today. It was a very good film, not too obviously a star vehicle as I've seen before, and some of the cinematography was downright beautiful.
The whole scene of the plane crash was scarily real. So much that I almost had to get up to leave. I could feel my muscles aching from the tension of gripping the handles of the seat, and I was trembling slightly at the end of it. I haven't ridden on a plane since I was maybe 8 or 9, and even then had never experienced even slight turbulence, so I knew I wasn't reacting consciously. But something in me got really, really scared. Maybe it was from another life, I don't know.
I realized recently just how uninterested my parents are in music. This notion was confirmed when I was digging through my father's cd collection tonight in search of a cd to write an entry by (I had foolishly forgot all but two cds for my trip home - Who is Jill Scott? by Jill Scott, and Ænima, by Tool, which I had purchased at B&N right before I left for home. Neither was what I wanted, I was more in the mood for Leonard Cohen, but there was none to be had), and found it to be a depressing collection of "Best of [Insert boring 70s rock band here]" and "John Tesh: Live at Somewhere or Other" (I know, I know). There were also, scattered in among this depressing pile of cds, a couple of my sister's castoffs: Alanis Morisette and Third Eye Blind. Come to think of it, no one in my family has good taste in music.
How then, did I come to be? Music is SO important to me. All these songs and melodies are so ingrained into me, part of my thoughts and in the rhythm of my heart and lungs. I can't imagine my life without it, I don't think I'd be me without it. It's hard for me to explain just exactly how I feel about it without sounding really trite and slightly ridiculous.
Oh well. I finally found Bruce Springsteen's Greatest Hits on the floor of our minivan. I cringed, thinking of my cds, carefully and lovingly taken care of, dust free, arranged in alphabetical and then chronological order. Stop laughing at me.
One Year Ago:
all writings, (c) 1999-2000, BRR