backtrack baby back

Jimmy Likka on the mic.



According to my new dentist, if I don’t stop grinding my teeth in my sleep, I’ll only have a third of my teeth left my the time I’m forty. I’m on the way to wearing them down to little nubbins. It’s stress or something, Or habit. I don’t know, but I’ve always done it. For some reason, my mother never got me the suggested nightguard when I was a child (I don’t know why, probably because she doesn’t love me) and now when I complain of headaches and worn down enamel, she just rolls her eyes and tells me to relax and I’ll stop. Now, if I’m ASLEEP, Mommy Dearest, I don’t rightly know that I’m grinding them. Now do I? I’m not a hypchondriac. I don’t LIKE it when I go to the dentist and she tells me I will have nubbins. (Although, what would I look like with very tiny teeth? Ha. Maybe I could start a trend.)

Why does this piss me off? This is so minor. It’s the most minor of minor. I’m a little confused about why I’m even writing here about it. I feel stupid. Stupid, but still pissed. The thought a week or so in the UK with this lovely woman is… well, maybe that’s the cause of my teeth grinding.

Last Night

Mike has moved to DC, finally FINALLY. We went to Chick Fil A at the mall, talked about how the restaurant pisses me off because they give Bible stories as presents in their Happy Meal, and how they are closed on the Sabbath for “family time” and so when I’m jonsin’ for a pickle and chicken sandwich, they are closed. That angers me. Also, I am angered for all the little Hindu chicken eaters who can’t get a decent Pokemon toy to choke on in their Happy Meal. Every child deserves that.

Don’t mess with my fast food. Especially by trying to mix grease and religion. You will fail every time.

Anyways, Mike and I went, and laughed and carried on. We made loud obnoxious jokes and cussed and threw waffle fries and talked about his new place downtown, and the close proximity to 930 club, and how HIP we are, and then tried to go to the CD cellar, but found it closed. Also, we drove around the rainstorm and talked about Pete Krebs and where to pick up women, something Mike will never ever do. I’m so glad he’s in DC now. My life is good.

About the Mall

Since we were in the GALLERIA (for those of you who don’t know, this is not a normal mall. It has stores like Betsy Johnson and Bebe and Max Mara and other places with names I can’t pronounce that sell things from “collections,” like belts for $700. The cost of clothes is proportionate to how many outfits hang on a rack. If there is less than 15 articles of clothing out on the store floor, or if everything is white and the saleswoman are ethnic or very pretty Italian men, or if clothes are made of animals or are ripped “on purpose”, chances are good you aren’t allowed to actually go in. Especially if you were wearing Old Navy $3.00 flip flops. Like Elle. That’s when the ethnic girls start throwing things at you, or trying to squish you with their chunky black shoe. Like a bug. An Elle bug. Or “L’Bug.” Like the store in Arlington, “Le Tee Shirt.” Or in the 80s, with Le Car and Le Sport Sac. Awesome.

Have a good weekend, mah leetle chickadees. I’m off to discover the pleasurable world of melanoma and sharkbites in NC. Til later.

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