Well, all right, the last part's not entirely out of the ordinary -- I'm always seeing strangely shaped bits of shadow and light out of the corners of my eyes and hallucinating smells and thinking inanimate things sound like breathing, but I've come to the conclusion that I just have highly reflective hair and breathing is rhythmic and rhythms are patterns and patterns are an obsession and so I'm bound to ascribe life to where there is none when what marks something as being alive can, by me, be interpreted so differently from how it manifests itself before the normal naked human eye.
But there's no accounting for the smells.
Still, yes, getting better. I've progressed beyond pudding, finally, having last night and this morning gobbled down lavender pancakes bathed extra soft in syrup, which is by far an improvement on the rancid french-onion-soup taste that's been plaguing my molars ever since the iron tang of blood gave way to more unfamiliar and horrifying secretions. God, foul, foul. And the swelling's finally subsided enough that I can tentatively tongue my stitches, which is just odd. I feel like Frankenmouth, which is probably nothing on how my little cousin feels, who whilst I was having vivid pressure-centric dreams in the dentist's chair was in the ocean being attacked by a shark, the poor thing. Two surgeries later, though, and he's recovering well. Over 150 stitches and, to quote my aunt, "the mother of all babe-magnet battle scars." As though being a long-haired baby rock star weren't enough. At least, I said, he can still play guitar with a mangled leg, and doesn't he have a story to tell now? Sharkbait, ooh ha ha.
I may send him a care basket of ironically-themed gummi & fruit snacks. Taste? Tact? What?