My cover artist, the amazing Dustin Ashe, has been seriously injured and is all busted up and broken and stuff. I know, right? The poor cuddle-umpkins!! By the sounds of it, he has accidentally mastered the unenviable yoga pose “Human Pretzel” (also see: “Big-big Owies” and “OMGFORTHELOVEOFCHRISTHELPME“)

<Yup, I believe that’s the one….>

Dustin is fantastic in every possible way–wait, that sounds like I know about his private bits, lemme rephrase–Dustin is probably fantastic in every way, but I sure would have no clue about that. Nope. Noooooo sirree. Also: he is superduper in every “gentlemanly” way *avoids eye contact* that it would be *plays with collar of shirt* *ahem* “ladylike” for me to know about. Cuz that’s what I am. Ladylike. Totally (K, I think they probably bought that, D, it’s all good).  He’s a gifted writer, and crushingly talented artist and an all-around awesome guy full of spirit, optimism and ambition. I have my heart set on his work, and refuse to have any other artist do my covers.

For the above reasons, the elaunch of Touched is postponed until FrankenArtist can catch up on work. I’m hoping the paper launch will still go on as planned in October, but that’s a soft op at the moment. I’m not in a huge rush. Eventually, the world will have to tolerate my screaming and bellowing “my book is out! my book is out!”, but you have a temporary respite from that. 

You’re supposed to send Dustin Get Well cards, not Thank You cards, smartasses. *unamused glare* Here’s my Get Well Card Dustin … because you wouldn’t expect any other kind of card from moi …

NO WAIT!! That wasn’t the right one *guilty chuckle* OK, OK, here it is …

Right! That’s enough mushy talk out of me. Except to say I wuv your furry widdle face, D! Get better soon 🙂 Anyhoo, this little writer will be back to the gutter tomorrow. Or whenever I drag my ass back to blog.

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto says “Grab somebody sexy tell ’em hey!”)

A couple of these might sound like something I could have done (if you’re a bunch of suspicious narrow-minded creeps, which–if you’re reading my shit–must be true) but I didn’t. No, for realsies!

1. I DID NOT suck all the pimentos out of the olives. And spit the olives back in the jar. And hide the jar in the back of the fridge. Clearly, my house is haunted by a poltergeist who digs pimento. That could so happen. There’s probably already a shitty movie on Netflix about it. Pimento-Sucking Poltergeists Part Two: The Return to AJ’s Fridge. OooOOoo. No?

2. I DID NOT open my knees juuuuust enough so that my thigh innocently snuggled-up against the thigh of a soul-crushingly hot man on the subway. It was an accident! I was just … gettin’ breezy. Like I always do when I find myself in the vicinity of a man built like Conan the Barbarian. Besides, my poor wee hoohah was suffocating and frankly, a thong is like a garrote some days, and we simply cannot allow coochie asphyxiation on the subway, can we? That sounds like it’s gotta be written in the TTC safety books someplace.  

<when this guy’s on the subway, everyone’s knees fall open a little>

3. I DID NOT throw out (instead of washing) a $20 Starbucks travel mug because it had rolled under the car seat and grown greenish-black film inside. That would be environmentally backwards, considering I bought that mug to save all those paper cups from the …wait, aren’t those recyclable? Doesn’t a plastic travel mug made in a factory in China then shipped overseas make a bigger carbon footprint than my keeping the paper cups flowing, promoting reforestation and creating jobs in recycling plants? You’re WELCOME, green activists!!

4. I DID NOT jokingly (yet sultrily) proposition a well-hung police horse. In front of a cop. I was actually propositioning (sultrily) the cop, but when he gave me the stink-eye, I pretended I was just talkin’ to the horse. Smooth, right? Is bestiality really a crime, cuz I’m totally fighting this ticket …. sultrily (my new word–I’ve decided you love it, just roll with it).

5. I DID NOT drive around for a week with a garden gnome buckled into the passenger seat of my car. OK, I did. Hey, buckled-in. Safety before sanity in “safe, sane and consenting” … though I will admit, the gnome did not consent. But before you cry “GNOME-RAPIST!” let me assure you: there was very little fondling involved (note: there may have been incidental rubbing when I unbuckled him, but after that I put all my clothes back on).

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto does not use dissociative language like “make it dead” and “cause him to become anal probed” unless she’s under the influence of severe environmental guilt, mystical pimentos or having her muff murdered by a black lace thong.)

Me: I have a confession to make.

Dentist: You’ve been eating sour Skittles again. Breathe slowly, count backward from ten.

Me: Ten. Yes. Nine. I can’t help myself. Eight. I’m on a diet. Seven.

Dentist: Good. Nice, deep breaths.

Me: But I’m weak, doc, I’m weak and wayward. Six. I’m incorrigible, and disobedient and recalcitrant. Five. That’s a great word, recalcitrant. Four. Also: I can’t resist temptation! Four and a half. So I compromised and only ate one Skittle a day. Three. One Skittle! Four. One. Two? Five? Wait–what was I–was I counting up or down?

Dentist: I think you’ve had enough.

Me: I have another confession to make.

Dentist: I don’t encourage my patients to make confessions while under the effects of nitrous oxide.

Me: That stuff smells gooooood.

Dentist: Does it?

Me: Better than the guy in the waiting room. 

Dentist: Tilt your chin a bit more toward me?

Me: He smelled like grease and beer-breath. Car grease, not greasy food. Damn, I could go for some greasy food. Or some greasy beer. And I don’t even like beer. But I’d drink beer with the grease man out there. I’d let Grease Man pour beer all over my naked body and slurp it off. Weird hunh? Must be the gas.

Dentist: Must be. Open wide?

Me: Men should never say that to me. Makes my brain go bad places.

I obey, blinking blearily into the overhead light. A latex-covered finger slides into my mouth, gentle and rubbery, and starts prodding my gum. A long-handled mirror clicks against my bottom teeth.

Dentist: *making a soft, displeased noise* Yes, this looks swollen.

Me: *gargles a naughty giggle deep in her throat*

Dentist: Sorry, forgot who I was talking to. Does it hurt when I do this?

Me: More men should inqu–OW!! MotherFUCKER!

Dentist: *sing-songs* Children in the other room.

Me: Sorry. Mothersucker.

I start hearing a familiar bell sound. Maybe it’s an alarm in my brain, warning me I’m about to go supernova on this guy’s ass.

Dentist: Your phone. Wanna turn that off?

I swipe at my purse, knocking its meagre contents into the patient, bearded dentist’s lap: Moleskine, pen, phone, Skittles, car keys, pickle fork. I make a point of telling you about his beard, of course, because as everyone knows, bearded men are great snugglers. That’s not theory, it’s fact, and it forms the basis of how I think of my dentist when I’m under the gas: Dr. Snuggles, only with sharp instruments. I turn the phone to vibrate and shove it in my pocket.

Me: You were saying, how my molar is fucked?

Dentist: Not sure I used that term, but by the looks of it, there’s an active infection in the jaw bone. It must have become infected when the movement of the post cracked it, exposing the interior–

Me: Oh!  Blerg.

Dentist: Are you going to vomit?

Me: Nope, just need a minute to process. *rapid blinking*

Dentist: Certainly.

He sits back with his heels up on the wheels of his rolly-chair and observes his patient. I swallow several times, breathing in slowly and deeply through my nose to calm myself. My fingernails withdraw from the vinyl padding of the chair’s arms, leaving claw marks. When the little black stars stop swirling in my vision, I narrow-in on a hazy thought which sharpens into something dreadful.

Me: When my dad had his jaw fixed after a bad root canal, they used cadaver bone to fill it. Is this the same thing?

Dentist: They do use donated bone in dental grafts, yes.

Me: Donated. To science.

Dentist: Yes.

Me: Donated. By dead people.

Dentist: Yes.

Me: Soooooo there’s gonna be cadaver bone in my mouth.

Dentist: More gas?

Me: Yes! Fuck!

Dentist: Backwards from ten.

Me: Ten! That’s fucking sick, doc. Nine! It’s beyond sick. Eight! It’s unfathomably disgusting, and … Seven! … as such: quite awesome. Sixfivefourthreetwoone. Man! I can’t wait to tell everyone there’s gonna be some dead guy in my MOUTH!

Dentist: *a lot less sing-songy* Children in the other room.

Me: Wait! Will the male strippers at Peppermints be grossed out that I have itty bitty corpse bits stuffed in my jaw? Seems like the kind of thing that would make a guy run away. Crap. Who’ll give me all-nude lap dances, if not them? I’d rather give up Skittles than Peppermints.

Dentist: You’ve got someone waiting to drive you home, right? I could give you something for your nerves …

Me: Doc, you can’t expect me to live without having my gin and tonic stirred by naked strange. That ain’t right.

Dentist: *for the first time chokes on his tongue a little*

Me: Then again, dead guy in my mouth … that ain’t right either, unless you’re using Dahmer’s dictionary.

Dentist: Maybe you could avoid announcing “dead guy in my mouth” to strangers in a strip joint? Just a thought.

Me *squints at him and points hard*: Right. Right! You’re a genius.

Dentist: Thank you. I’m going to give you a presciption for more vicodin, to help you sleep until we can get that worked on.

Me: Keep the corpse a secret. Of course, duh. Boy, am I stupid or what?

Dentist: Let me just check your chart for … hrm, here we go …

Me: The word stupid is on my chart, seriously?

Dentist: Are you still taking Epival under psychiatric observation?

Me: If by “observation” you mean “prescription over the phone”, then yes. *beams brilliantly*

The dentist makes an uncertain noise, like he doesn’t quite believe me, and swivels on his chair like a big gruff teddy bear on a perch. He considers me from behind the safety of his surgical mask for a minute, his calf-brown eyes deep in thought.

Dentist: I’ll put through the referral. And no more Skittles, you.

I follow him out into the hall, pleading with the back of his pristine white lab coat.

Me: You’re kidding, right? You’re just kidding. That was a joke. No Skittles?

Dentist: Not. A. One.

Me: Lemon drops? Tootsie Rolls? Smarties? M&Ms? I gotta have something, doc, have mercy on a poor girl. Tic Tacs? Life Savers! Gummy Bears? Swedish Fish! Hot Lips? nah, too chewy … oh oh! Nerds! They’re so little!

Dentist: September 6th, 2 pm. Check back with me on the 20th. *smile* And stick to your “Peppermints”. They’re probably better for your teeth.

Me: If you could just write that on a prescription pad, that would really help me out … no? Doc?

(editor’s note: AJ Aalto wrote this entire blog while under the effects of vicodin and Blue Curacao on the rocks–a cocktail which shall forevermore be known as the Cadavertini–and will not be held responsible for the contents of today’s blog, or any other blog this summer, as she intends to drink this shit a LOT. You know, for medicinal purposes? Also: AJ does not actually say such horrible, perverted things to her dentist. Or maybe she does, and afterwards prefers to believe it never happened. Yeah, that’s probably more like it.)