That pack of dog days catches me up, a sweaty sciatica riot. 

(Riot: Anything hounds might hunt they that shouldn’t during a fox hunt.)

Each Tere yip and Tere bark, is one more Tere taken in vain from me.  

(Tere: a diminutive of the name Teresa, an alternate spelling of Theresa.)
My sanity wavers. As expected.

This month it happened. After roughly twenty five years of losing teeth, I now have all that I need to chew food properly. There are no more gaps where an almond could try to cozy itself in as an extremely uncomfortable makeshift cuspid. No more need to favor one side for chewing. My mouth can’t believe how many teeth it is supposed to have. My tongue wants to push all unfamiliar shapes out the way. It must learn to be constrained and not be slipping out through the sides whenever it likes. There are subtle pronunciation changes I will have to adapt to– again– not that anyone who isn’t a linguistics major would notice.

I remember I went through a mean stretch of years chewing oh so slowly with missing and broken teeth. Food particles would jam painfully in where they’re not supposed to go. At gatherings everyone would finish eating well ahead of me and I awkwardly made light of it. I had constant infections. My gums bled. But yeah, my suffering was just a social embarrassment so, heh, yeah…
Going to the dentist for the major work I needed was one more thing I’ve had to be a man about until grace showed me favor. This last round of work was four root canals and three dental implants.
To get out of pain one must endure pain. Oh, Samsara, my– uh– my beloved?

So, while I am figuring out teeth all over again, melting without AC, fidgety with sciatica, dealing with a difficult elder person– and then deaths of Dolly Parton and Tim Curry (incredulous interrobang), the Internet shows me Edinburgh in its Fringe performance festival mode. I was existing in Edinburgh during the spring and summer once and the festival broke out like an exotic heat rash in Old Town- as it has since 1947 or so. I floated on the periphery in detached awe (it was brainfog). At the time, my illiberal ass hadn’t become a performer yet so what was all of this theatrical nonsense to me really? I was preoccupied with recovering from a spinal injury + concussion (+ mental break down because I was told there wasn’t anything much wrong with me). I was a young adult on my own processing a horror show in my own nervous system– without a single pill of medication. And for a spine injury that I don’t have/ is not a big deal– for some reason–  I still lose feeling in my back and left foot once too often, have to religiously do piriformis stretches, and I think I really want to own a Luigi Mangione candle. Maybe there is one that smells like justice?– reckoning?

Looking at those social media posts about Fringe, Dolly and Tim got me wispy in very downer ways. I miss Edinburgh and, even more, I miss performing [butoh]. The workshops, the weird poetry and stresses of it all… It gave me panic/anxiety attacks constantly, but space was allowed for all the uncomfortable things of life so I didn’t feel like I had to shy away for being defective. 

Then Disney did a thing that gave me a real nice dopamine hit to hype me up. They dropped a trailer for the new season of Ahsoka– a Star Wars show that is coming out next year. It features a beautiful person I have met who plays a character I have loved since I was almost too young to be thinking about… oh, gosh, you know– like– unexpected military applications of mining equipment? (≧◡≦)

Because I have met Lars Mikkelsen prior to the filming of this season, I can say I exist as part of the character Thrawn now. Looking at him on screen, I am eminently chuffed knowing that I am there under that black hair, behind those “unsettling” red eyes. Even if Lars can’t exactly recall me, I am in there somewhere, in that one brain cell of his that’s shoved way in the back– Probably labeled underlig amerikaner– I never told him my name. (˃̣̣̥ᴖ˂̣̣̥)

Is my appreciation of and affection for fictional characters too juvenile? Please. (Read with unvoiced, but heavily implied ‘bitch’ modifier for extra condescending sass and meaningful use of vulgarity.)

Y’all should be glad I’m doing imaginary Mitth and not actual meth, fantasy instead of fenty. Ya “baby“girl”“ has pretty quick access to such hard substances. If I so chose. It’s right next door. From the kitchen window I watch it exchange hands, and inspire the bodies of the men who live in the lot on the other side of the wall. They dance without rhythm, throw tantrums, grandstanding to no one, the exact same as I do behind closed doors– while sober. It is their privilege that they can be on drugs, bare to the sky without shame or fear… as men, of course. 
I don’t think I could bring myself to even inquire about a hook up, but it is never ever beyond possibility. Merely quite improbable. Am I “too smart” to take drugs? Paul Erdös was a mathematical genius and he did drugs all the time! I do greatly desire out of my current circumstances and I am not a happy creature for how far away I feel from doing things that would be fulfilling to me. One hit could be a temporary, blindingly educational step out, or a permanent exit. Either way it would be an adventure that isn’t the mired one I am having right now. I continue to choose a Chiss over meeting Christ. I don’t want to regret looking out for other paths forward. I just got my new teeth put in. I fear I am going to break them too for all the jaw clenching I can’t stop myself from doing. 

And, oh hey, TMJ happens when you are faced with TMI. J and I can be interchangeable. It all connects. Thank you for reading my TMI. Now go do some stretches. It is your privilege to step away.