what sandra thinks

[Disclaimer: This is going to be a silly post. Really reaching for an x. None of this even bothers me… I just needed something (possibly funny) to complain about… and I had a dentist appointment last week. Feel free to skip this post. I’m almost too embarrassed to post it… but I haven’t missed any a-to-z posts… and I don’t want to!]

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x | x-rays at the dentist

It’s 2017. There has to be a better way.

I don’t mind going to the dentist because mine is kind of hot. And no, I did not choose him based on that. I used to see someone else who left and hot-dentist took over.

My favorite thing about a trip to the dentist is when, as I follow the dental hygienist into the maze of exam rooms, she informs me that I’m due for some new films. We walk into the x-ray room where she asks me if there’s any chance I could be pregnant. When I stop laughing, I tell her no. I have to remind myself (for the last 9-ish years anyway) not to say Oh HELL no! because those are the actual words that my brain thinks.

Once I’ve answered her ridiculous question, she plops a giant heavy-ass lead bib over me. Here’s what I want to know: If the heavy-ass lead bib isn’t enough to protect a potential fetus from radiation, is it really enough to protect me?

Radiation poisoning aside, I sit and watch as she approaches with her set of sharp thingys. You know, those little rectangles with the tab you bite down on… the ones with the sharp edges that feel like they may slice through the inside of your cheek? Yeah, those. Thankfully, I’ve never seen one removed from my mouth with blood on it.

The hygienist then hides behind a shielded area while she snaps the picture. So… she needs to be behind a shield but I only have a bib. Seems legit.

She removes the sharp thingy and I wonder if I’m too drool-y. That would suck since a line of spit will then form from my mouth to the sharp thingy. And of course, when that line breaks, it will end up on my chin. How attractive. What the hell am I going to wipe that with? My sleeve? I’m not a four-year old. Also, short sleeves would present a problem.

… And then we change rooms so she can jab at my mouth with another sharp thingy.

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© 2017 what sandra thinks

w | writing

Hear me out…

I love writing. I really do. But maybe I love it on my own terms. Is that the same as loving writing? Maybe… maybe not. I love to write what I want to write. Could I ever, though it seems like a great idea, write for a living in a role that requires me to write on a specific topic, not of my choosing? Maybe I could. But I’m not sure. Maybe because I’m not a real writer.

I’ve always leaned toward the belief that a real writer is a published author or one who writes professionally in some other capacity. Is that true? Or is it all a matter of opinion? In a literal sense, if I write, I’m a writer. But in the same sense, if I run, I’m a runner. But I am not a real runner… I’m probably just being chased.

I play around with poetry yet really have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve written fiction since I was a kid but I don’t know if I’m following any of the ‘rules’ (which I don’t believe in anyway). Maybe some of it… the poetry and the fiction… is even good. I don’t know how to judge my own work. I only know if I like it. Does this make me a writer? I don’t know. I never thought so.

Am I just talking myself out of the label writer because I’m too afraid to pursue it? Because I don’t think I could get any sort of writing job? Because I don’t think I’m good enough to be published?

Besides questioning myself far too often, I think the real ‘bitch‘ here is frustration.

When I’m desperate to get words on paper (or screen) and none appear.

When I know I could write if my random mixed up thoughts would coalesce.

When I can’t seem to stop letting every little thing distract me.

When I think I’d be happy if I could get a writing job but then realize that I may hate it or suck at it.

When I am so frustrated that I actually cry over it. (This is, perhaps, not as severe a reaction in me as it might be in others.)

I do love writing. And I hate writing. I guess this is true of almost anything. The love/hate thing. Anything. Except coffee.

#atozchallenge | bitchfest
© 2017 what sandra thinks