"This Must Be What Botched Botox Feels Like (um, no pun intended)"

The entire left side of my face is numb. It's amazing. Like, wow. And, as to be expected, anytime you lose the ability to move or feel a part of you, funny shit happens. Like when I stopped into Cosi to eat a piece of free bread and as I was walking out and chewing (I'm usually a very good closed-mouth chewer), bits of soggy bread start careening down my chin. In the middle of the talent that scurries around the Financial District. Me, my sweater vest, my sassy little polka dot headband, my athletic shoes (function over fashion), and bits of bread on my chin. Like a toddler. That's the hotness, folks. Right there.

My Dentist (who, for the record, is not Jason Guynes) is a middle-aged, tres effeminate Jewish man who does not freak me out or bother me though he talks incessantly in a high-pitched voice and stares down my top (I wore a high neck and sweater vest today to combat any leering disasters). I actually get a kick out of him. And, as evidenced today (this is when I realized, Good Lord, I need to get laid), he actually kinda in the teensiest little way, makes me feel young, fierce, and super attractive. As he's got his hands in my mouth he says in his sissy voice, "Beautiful! Beautiful! You've got gorgeous teeth - surrounded by a gorgeous girl." I muster a "ah-ank oo" while his latexy hand is jammed in my mouth, drill drill drill. Any other healthcare professional and I would feel all creeped out, but as he continued to bathe me in compliments, despite leaving with a drooly, numbed face, I left that office feeling like a million freaking bucks. There's something very gratifying in knowing that a dude who is inches from your face and open mouth, on a day when you haven't bothered to wash your hair or do a particularly fine makeup job, is still feeling you in a major way. Yes, some of you are going to say that I'm sick, but hey, I'll take the compliments. He even said that before I move to Chicago I have to let him take me to a Red Sox game. As if! Anyhoo.

I did a bang up job cleaning my desk (it's the headband and the mouth numbness that is making me productive. The headband because I feel neat and pulled together and the mouth numbness because it impedes my eating my salmon and brown rice lunch, which might make me sleepy and not wanting to work) and it looks awesome. I will get to the doing work part a little later - perhaps around 3pm. As I was on the T this morning, listening to Danzig's "Mother" of all things and really rockin' out, I thought of all of the things I could put in my little bloggy. Should I write about ex-boyfriends and their funny little habits (I could turn this into my very own chick lit blog!)? Should I write about my impending vaca to the Bahamas? Should I write about work? Nah, droll. I prefer to write about my new obsession with the French male swim team. I love cockey French bastards with Silver medals. That is all.

I'm going to try to chew some food now and likely listen to Morrissey on repeat. Then I will do some work (gasp!), pick up my dry cleaning, and run. I am oozing sex. Or that could just be saliva oozing down my chin. Rad.