Worst words I ever heard from a dentist: 'Oh wow, your nerve runs really high. And your molar had 3 roots instead of 2. No wonder you thought you needed more novocaine."

That's right. I also "thought" you were a pompous, condescending jackass because you ridiculed me when I asked for more, insisted "It's just pressure, not pain," and rolled your eyes when I politely pointed out the manifest evidence inside my mouth that I'd been to this rodeo enough to freaking know the difference.

My arm also ached for hours afterward from clutching the armrest to keep myself from punching the bozo out. It's the only time I've ever regretted *not* doing so.

Ouch!

My most vivid memory from my root canal was hearing a snapping sound, followed immediately by the dentist exclaiming, "Oh S***."

He had broken off a drill bit in the bottom of the root. I didn't eat anything but yogurt for two weeks.

I really didn't need to hear about that. My root canal is next week. Oh, well, I'll assume you absorbed my quantum of bad luck.

It happened 25 years ago. I trust the art and tech of dentistry have approved in the interval.

On the plus side, this happened in the summer where I first started dating my wife. When our relationship got through those two weeks, I was pretty confident it would hold up for the long haul.