So you're having impacted teeth surgery...

I should have brought this junkie back
Get to make her parents happy
Plus there is a monkey on her back
And it won't stop starin' at me now

Unquestionably a freak, an aberration, a mutant sans comic book stardom, my jowls are swollen in a mockery of royal inbreeds from the Hapsburg dynasty – mandibular prognathism in a modern day Mexi-Germanic-Frencho kingdom. Only my influence is limited to the declining number of men still caught in the throes of want what I can't have, and as a beneficiary of fine American customer service. I get my ego trips from the fine print in the employee handbook that reads: the customer is always right. Respect my consumer authority.

Early in the bitter cold of a Friday winter morning, boasting -5 degrees at its inception, quadruplet impacted [impacted: tightly or immovably wedged in] wisdom teeth were pulled from my then nicely formed jaws, a component of my inherited gourd-shaped head, but only once I had completed the informative pamphlet so you're having impacted teeth surgery… It was folded in half (hamburger style) –to give it bulk and jurisdiction. It included a discussion of a menacing IV Sedation, but what was really a blessing in a clear plastic bag- drip, drip, drip.

Prior to surgery I was informed it was to be "conscious sedation", but its memory recall resembled black-out drunk (I did what?). As the victims of black-out drinking sessions will tell you, what one does not know, will not hurt. I did not want to know what was said or done. If I mumbled pornographic secrets of fetishisms and vibrators, or confessions of an undying love for X, Y, or Z, I have no desire to possess knowledge of such uninhibited drug-induced utterances.

I awoke wrapped in the fuzz of a blue blanket, peering into the grizzled beard of my uncle, tasting blood. I soon realized it was not produced by a lip bite from another pair of teeth, but still too high to be sexually frustrated; I resigned to its taste. I was escorted by the blonde fiancé of a man, the skin of her arm felt soft against mine, her voice sugary. In the coherency of a temporary sober state, I worry I may have blown her a kiss, from gratitude, or my closet lesbianism.

The click of locked doors, "we wouldn't want you to escape", and my uncle smiled.

I was in a bad Rob Zombie-produced horror movie. Accepting an untimely and gruesome death as fate, I leaned a heavy head against the glass, only to awake in a grocery store parking lot, dozing off periodically, dreaming of half man/half lollipop creatures I could lick at will.

He returned with the goodies of a soft food diet – instant mashed potatoes, jell-o, pudding, and ice cream. I attempted a smile as he displayed his treasure with pride, but it was lopsided, numb, and bubbling with saliva and blood. He lovingly shoved sterile gauze in my half-open mouth and rubbed the top of my ponytail, strands of hair slipping out around my face. I wanted to profess my love for him, to tell him he was the best surrogate father in the world, and that I had once looked for a Hallmark card to describe, but I only moaned and puffed antiseptic air. I think he understood.

The numbness in my face and lips provided endless amusement, a consequence of the drip. I looked over at the sizable man stirring the boiling water and "potato" flakes, their true identity unknown – A Betty Crocker in flannel and work boots. All feeling in the facial area lost, the union of cup and lip did not seem to exist, but the cold water dripping down my chest did.

He returned with two white pills, circular and intriguing. Eat, pop, and then drink was his command. I scooped spoonfuls of counterfeit mashed potatoes into my mouth and swallowed. Chewing was not permitted.

"What are they?" I asked. He rolled the bottle across the table. I was eager to become a legalized drug addict.

Oxycodone, it sounded legitimate. But it was discovered to be generic for Percocet, missing the much needed I after the d, and hardly worthy of the classification pain killer, more like attempted murder. I swallowed the allotted two anyway. My nerve endings were beginning to discover the unnatural holes in my gums, infuriated, they retaliated with throbbing pain. I prayed to the pharmaceutical company gods, and they answered after the time release.

Now I'm high like all the time, but only for the dreams I say. I hope they will result in a Twilight series of my own. I am not a follower of the Book of Mormon, nor will my character abstain from sex, and my inspiration will be drug cajoled, hardly kid friendly. Let the competition of gross earnings begin.