I pulled the first one on my eighteenth birthday. In the bathroom right before my mother cut the cake I wedged a butter knife under a bottom left molar and crank. Two tries and it tore right out. If you have ever chomped on some aluminum you know the feeling. It cracked from the bone but came out whole. My tooth looked like any other tooth that hadn’t seen a dentist in three years. I held it on the counter between my thumb and forefinger and smashed it with the knife handle. Nothing. I had pulled the wrong one. Without further instructions I decided it would be best to return to the table. I washed my mouth out. The warm water felt cool over fresh nerves. I shoved some toilet paper in the socket and walked out the door.

When a single cylindrical sprinkle enters an empty molar socket it feels like folding a compound fracture of the femur back into place.

When my Grandmother asked me what happened I said I bit my tongue. Sniff. Spit. Gum blood chocolate paper truffle. The worst metallic tasting treat ever seen.

“Don’t be so careless,” my mother said. Burst static. Channel changing and frequency interference. A smooth continuous wave of collision.

“I was being careful.”

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