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200123 - How To Kill A Dentist

For most of you going to the dentist's office is serious a drag. No one likes having their gums tortured with needles and drills. Dentists know this and choose to do it almost every day.

If a person dedicates their whole life to hurting other people for money, does the world really benefit from their existence?

It's not a justification. It’s just a question.

Here’s how I would do it:

I would invite my dentist on a seaside walk. Ocean spray reminds him of tears, so naturally he would accept.

I’d walk with him along the sand, lulling him with stories of personal anguish, some real, some manufactured. He’d listen quietly as we went, trying to suppress his glee.

“Perhaps the cliffs would give us a better view?” I’d say.

“What? Oh- yeah, sure. What is it you were saying about stillbirths?”

He’d follow me up the foreshore without protest, enraptured by my tales of woe.

Once atop the cliffs I’d make my way over to the edge, the dentist following closely so as to hear my stories over the wind.

With my back to the precipice I'd say, “My teeth have been giving me grief lately, I figured you’d be the one to ask.”

I’d open my mouth and present my teeth. Instinctively the dentist would lean in to take a look, pulling my cheek with his finger.

“Mm-hm. I see what’s going on here. Looks like your gonna need a crown or maybe even-“

Then I'd grab him by the arm, pulling him up off the ground and swinging him around my head (dentists are extremely light due to years of huffing nitrous gas). His arms and legs would flail and with a heaving spin I’d fling him out over the sea with all my strength.

The dentist would soar through the air. His white lab coat trailing him like a cape.

He’d fly out from the cliffs, tumbling towards the horizon until he had disappeared from view. He’d pierce the white underbelly of a cloud and streak vapour behind him as he exited the other side. Fire would tail him comet-like until he’d breached the atmosphere, the flames only ceasing once he’d flown beyond the reaches of oxygen and into space proper.

He’d continue his trajectory through that cold vacuum completely unaffected yet still unable to save himself. Dentists share a common ancestor with tardigrades and as such are completely immune to the ravages of space.

After some long moments of unimaginable silence he would slowly be pulled into a high orbit of our star. He’d fall faster and faster until he hit the threshold, then in almost an instant he’d be atomised by the plasma ejected from the photosphere.

A flash from above would catch my eye as I walked back home along the shoreline. I’d look up at the sky and see it alight. The halogen gases which constitute most of the dentist’s body would have only moments ago exploded against the surface causing a cascade of multicoloured solar flares.

The flashing lights and wicks of brilliant colour would glitter and reflect in my eyes as though they were two suns of their own. Tears would well and run down face, whether they were of joy or of sadness it would be impossible to say.
Most likely they would be from looking at the sun for too long.

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050123 - The Site

My website. I made it a few minutes ago.

I don't know what I will be putting here. If what I’m doing begins to form itself into a diary then it might be best to start by dating each of these entries. I’ll give this page a chronology even if it doesn’t end up needing it.

I’ve started this site on the advice of my online friend, Jaime. I’ll link to his page at some point in the future. I have no idea why he was so adamant about me doing this, maybe he felt lonely being the only one with a blog?

"Writing is therapeutic."

Throughout my life writing has been recommended to me as a means of combatting depression. Its a way to record and organise thoughts and feelings separate from your own head. I’ve spent most of my life lost in my own head, so maybe this will in some way remedy that? Or if not remedy then perhaps at least serve as an outlet for the thoughts that follow me all day.

I always fantasised about being a writer. Writing has this mystique and romance attached to it that a lot of other types of art don’t have, or maybe they do, how the fuck would I know? The idea of writing appealed to me since my thoughts usually play themselves out in words. I don't enjoy the writing in and of itself, don’t misunderstand me, that part always seemed very tedious. The IDEA of writing is where the appeal is. Hemingway, Hunter Thompson, Dostoyevsky, and so on. Tragedy, suicide, war, alcohol - this is what I mean when I say ‘writing’. The writing part of writing is essentially meaningless, secretaries can do it. You press the keys or move the pen, there's nothing to it. You just need fingers. It’s not special and it's not worth celebrating. Writing as a craft, ACTUAL writing, is about having a name, a persona, and something worthy of expression.

Though, I don’t have a name.

I don't have a persona.

Or anything to express.

I'm basically a secretary.

Here's the file you asked for, boss. I just finished typing it.

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