Picture it: Earth, August 12, 2025. I publish a blog post about wanting to speak out more and talk more about, well, everything. I write about feeling frustrated and like I have to stay quiet and I’m over it. IMMA SAY SOME STUFF Y’ALL.
Fast forward to August 14, 2025. I’m thinking about what I should write for my next post. I take a bite of a chicken sandwich and the crown on my back molar breaks off. Not falls off. Nope, not in my world. It breaks off and takes half of my molar with it.
Heebus Cristo on a pogo stick, Universe. Say it louder.
Actually? Don’t. Ouch.
So, what does that mean for future posting here? Heck if I know. I’m giving myself some time to calm down and stop catastrophizing before I make a decision.
FWIW: I’ve been to the dentist and I’m being referred to an oral surgeon to remove the non-savable molar from my skull because its roots have decided to snuggle up with my sinus. I’m not in pain because that tooth had a root canal before the crown was put on. I’ll be fine, it’s just going to take a minute to breathe through the “chicken shouldn’t have a chunk in it” trauma of it all.