Shing-a-ling, what a creepy thing to be happening

In my adulthood, I've developed fear and loathing of dental appointments. I once went eight years between checkups.

My dentist and hygienist are super nice. They let me listen to my iPod so I can't hear the scraping and always put numbing gel on my sensitive teeth so I don't jump out of the chair when they're touched. But I still dread going.

This morning, I arrived a few minutes early for my six-month checkup, only to find that they were running behind. I settled in with a magazine and did my best to relax. As the minutes went by, I started getting more anxious and irritable. The woman in the chair beside me was texting incessantly, and her keypad was making beep-boop-beep sounds. After about 10 minutes, I started to imagine ripping it from her hands, throwing it on the floor and stomping on it. Around the 15-minute mark, I began debating just leaving, as I'm always told my teeth are fine and to keep up the good work.

Twenty minutes in, I was seriously starting to panic. Just about then the receptionist, who sounds like a Waffle House waitress and doesn't have an inside voice, yelled out to one of her co-workers, "HEY NIKKI -- HOW DO YOU SPELL DYING? IS IT D-Y-I-N-G?"

I was grabbing for my keys to flee, but my name was called.

Dr. McNeill told me my teeth are fine and to keep up the good work.

(Want a good dental horror story? Click here.)