I’m not a dentalphobiac but they could talk me into it, and after the last go-round I skipped a Match just to avoid the thundering cheek-piece and associated ibuprofen requirements of headache. Ow, crowns should be easier.
You could buy 10-acres of gorgeous to-die property that was really such a worthless pin-prick hilltop point that only angels could dance on the non-vertical portion thereof, dropped-in by helicopter since the road has a vertical kink you have to hit hard in 2nd gear to wheelie-up. The log cabin was cute, but the surrounding walk off the edge of the world where gravity was dragging things made the house less attractive – and bears. The pet cemetery was just such a bonus.
Photoshopped images abound and the smart person has to balance that wistful notion of Dean Martin cool, disappointment, and a recognition of the hope-springs-eternal Gell-Mann Amnesia effect – but a real-life blanket of cloying chotchkies collected over a lifetime carpeting both indoors and out can be overlooked if the golden-oak claustrophobia of cabinetry is strong enough to cause a seizure. I’ve seen that exact godforsaken goldenrod appliance and it was torn-out by the roots and destroyed ages ago, yet it returns like the Devil incarnate, under tile and in so many poses.
It’s not how old you’re gonna be (or may never become) it’s how old you are right now – so decide based on the now-ness not on the to-be or hope-to – and if requires a lot of pain in the ass work you already did before, tell them to shove it and get it right, right now.
When the ground where the fallen oranges lie is covered in duck-poo and chicken shit, wash the oranges before you stack and handle them in the juicer. And maybe re-think that “slice of lime” on the edge of your ice-tea or the top of your Corona bottle, apparently Teh-Help has little time for citrus washing, it’s up to you.