I was rammed, prodded, poked and scraped for two hours. Have you ever smelled the inside of one of your teeth as it is being singed? That's nothing that should be bottled, sold, and spritzed on pulse points. Somehow I lucked into an office where the person running the satellite radio and I have similar taste: Modern English, Depeche Mode, New Order. When I thought it couldn't get better, it did: The Smiths, Cure.
I left with half my face numb and tongue numb.
"Can you tell?" I asked Chuck.
"It doesn't look that bad. Maybe like you got hit with a softball," JCrew said.
For many hours, it was merely a discomfort of not being able to talk or laugh. Then I passed out, and woke up to face-on-fire-itis. I felt like I was a cartoon character on the hilarious end of a cast iron skillet. I took enough Ibuprofin to make Meth in my stomach.
More surgery Wednesday!