Dry Sockets and Pervy Wankers


It’s been a long time. I don’t even remember what I blogged about last. Doesn’t matter. I’ve completely binned Louis Tuesday and I haven’t given up entirely on Minhin Monday, but I’m taking a break from it. I just haven’t really reached a decision yet.

I do wake up every day half nauseated and half titillated to find out who else will be accused of sexual misconduct, though. And here’s the thing I just cannot wrap my head around:

So let’s just pick one. One dude accused of being a pervy wanker.

Lauer’s the newest, we’ll just use him as an example.

Okay, so Lauer sexually assaulted one colleague, bought another one a dildo and gave it to her with some sort of wordy schematic on how he’d like to help her troubleshoot it. Whatever.


So he’s been accused.

What about the indefensible piece of vile human garbage who’s running our country.

Lauer didn’t even fully say he did it. His apology was just another in a long line of “sorry not sorry” statements that these men have trotted out after being publicly shamed for their pervy wankeritude.

And we’re ready to hang him off the side of a building and flay him wide open for the whole world to see.

But Herr Gropenfuhrer over here blatantly said that he likes to grab women by their pussies and kiss them when they don’t want it and whatever else.

He came right out and said it. Hidden cameras are a lot like alcohol. Both usually disinhibit a person enough to let them show their true colors. When we don’t think we’re being watched, when we don’t think anyone can overhear it, we are our most authentic selves.

Except writers. For some reason we appear to work backwards, seeking out the biggest platform we can find and never being truly authentic until as many people as possible are listening.

It’s a whole thing.

I can’t explain it.

But the point is that if we’re willing to believe stories from the victims of these men of Hollywood (and daytime news), then why as Herr Gropenfuhrer not yet been held accountable for his own offenses, about which he’s openly bragged?

I am not a people person. I do not claim to understand us at all. But this one just boggles me entirely.

Jesus tits, you guys. Honestly. I am dumbfounded and yet weirdly not surprised at the same time.


There’s that.

Savannah Whats-her-nuts said on “Today” the other day (does that work?) that:

“How do you reconcile your love for someone with the revelation that they have behaved badly, and I don’t know the answer to that,” she said.

It’s rough. It’s really really hard to discover that someone you loved is a monster. I know. I married one. And I loved him. Even after he did so many things to hurt me, I loved him. After he dropped me off on a gravel road and sped off, spitting gravel in my face. After he asked me to get an abortion when I told him I was pregnant. After he took the keys from me in the middle of an argument and told me I couldn’t leave with our daughters because the car was in his name and he’d report it stolen. Even after he spent the two years of our marriage (plus the four or so we were dating) downloading child porn and hiding it from me.

So many things.

But real love isn’t for behavior. Real love is for the person it’s felt for, regardless of their behavior. That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to accept. Loving someone and despising their behavior. There are no easy answers for that. It hurts. It’s a betrayal, the kind that burns like acid in your stomach and makes your chest ache. You’re embarrassed for them, and you’re sad for yourself, and you’re angry, and you’re hurt, but more than anything, when you really love someone who is a complete and utter failure as a human being, who has behaved deplorably and who you have to acknowledge will never have empathy the way real human beings have empathy, you feel grief.

It’s a disenfranchised, complicated, fucking gnarly sort of grief that never comes to a closure because the person is still alive. He’s (or she’s) still there. You still see his face, you still hear his voice, he’s still all right there, alive and physically well. And it’s so fucking hard to accept that the person you loved isn’t just dead, but never even existed. Not truly.

The man I married was a chimera. He was a carefully curated hologram used, as the man who made him used me, to cover up his own bottomless well of awfulness and disease. But when I cried, when I tried to help him, when I wanted my wedding ring back because I just needed to look at it, I just needed something real, something with some weight, that I could hold to prove that my marriage had been real at all, very few people around me could accept that. Many made my grief about them. About their reaction to what my husband did and how it affected their lives. Every time I said “I feel” to some people all I got back was “well imagine how I feel.”

Being isolated while you’re surrounded by people is a strange feeling. It’s like Beetlejuice, where the Maitlands have died, but they can still walk around and watch those around them going about their business, going on with life. It’s crazy-making to know that as you fall completely to pieces, as you literally beg anyone to just bear witness to the worst grief you’ve ever felt, without judging, without commenting, just listening, they will turn away and pretend not to see because your emotional reaction makes them too uncomfortable.

And dry sockets.

I don’t think I have one. But my face hurts you guys. I had to have a tooth removed and it was unpleasant, but I’m actually feeling worse over there since having it done. I don’t think I have a dry socket but I don’t know for sure. All I know is that I HATE teeth. I hate them. I hate gums. I hate roots. I hate teeth. I hate gaping empty sockets where teeth have been. I hate the word socket. I’m literally sitting here with goosebumps just writing the word socket.


I’m lucky, though, to have finally found a dentist who doesn’t completely brush aside my fear. The current state of my teeth is a perfect storm of a lot of factors, including 1. not having the money to get them fixed earlier, 2. drinking entirely too much Coke, which is one of the hardest substances to quit hands down, 3. being extremely broken-hearted and not taking care of myself for about two years, and 4. never being able to find a dentist who would agree to let me get just wasted enough to get myself in the chair.

The last guy who took a tooth out of my face? Guy was unpleasant. He was rude. He refused to give me any anxiolytics or nitro, and he sweated all over my face as he pulled on that molar like it was the sword in the stone and he was not Arthur. It was so bad. And he wanted some kind of gold star for even doing it at all even though I was poor and not a “good” patient. Like he made sure I felt like a piece of shit when I walked out that door.

My new dentist, Dr. Boger, recognizes that if he gives me halcion beforehand I’ll 1. show up and my teeth won’t continue to rot away and 2. he won’t have to dodge punches every time he tries to stick his hand in my mouth.

I mean, come on. Jeffrey Dahmer used halcion on his victims before he drilled holes in their heads. Why shouldn’t a dentist be just as willing to dispense it? It’s just polite. Also, the Hamilton soundtrack becomes an entirely different experience on .5 mg of halcion and a generous huff of nitrous. It’s pretty intense.



Anyhow, hoping I don’t have a dry socket, but even if I do it doesn’t really matter because they’re apparently able to heal without intervention just the same as if I went back to the dentist, so I’m going to just roll with it and hope that it gets better in the coming days.


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