The Guilty Driller
The amazing story of my dentist who can make “open wider” sound so f***ing romantic.
Let me tell you about my dentist — a man so apologetic, he could make a Canadian blush. Picture this: he starts apologizing before the anesthesia even leaves the syringe, and by the time we get to drilling, he’s practically writing sonnets of remorse. It’s like dating someone who’s sorry for breathing your air, but in the most endearing way possible.
Thanks to his gentle touch, my lifelong dental phobia has nearly evaporated — though I’m keeping a small portion of it tucked away, like that “emergency” chocolate bar in your bedside drawer. You know, just in case. Because let’s be honest, I remember the dentists of yesteryear, those maestros of misery who treated injections like an Olympic sport: “How slow can you go? Let’s find out!” They approached each procedure with all the sensuality of a parking ticket.
Back in my childhood, those dental desperados operated on a strict “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am” policy, treating each patient like an express lane item at a discount store. No sweet talk, no gentle preparation — just straight to business like an overeager prom date who skips dinner and heads straight for the dance floor. The highlight of their bedside manner was a grunt and perhaps, if you were lucky, a mumbled “bite…
