Apoca-lame

Using the fact that I am typing this as evidence that the world did not end yesterday at approximately 6 pm (Harold Camping never did mention if that was Pacific or Eastern Standard Time) - life goes on.

The day after the apocalypse I went to the grocery store, wore a yankees cap, and got some dirty looks. Nothing out of the ordinary. I feel like everyone should at least try to make this triumph over Christian extremism a little more special for each other. Is everyone really that disappointed we didn't perish in some shitstorm yesterday?

On May 21, I counted down impending doom; predicting a warm shower of meteoroids through the overcast San Diego sky, after ruling out the possibility of death by tidal wave, considering the coastline appeared normal. After I deciphered safety had arrived in the form of 6:02 pm on my phone clock (does anyone actually have a watch these days?) I ate some sushi off a miniature boat in a whirlpool moat at a bar. (Yay, cheap Japanese food).

In the hours leading up to what I ironically anticipated as the end of humanity (and my sushi date), I listened to my favorite R.E.M. song, cringed at the thought of becoming an Alien sex slave, and realized - the apocalypse wouldn't be the worst thing.

This is for a few reasons.

A) Selfishly, because at this moment in time (mere days away from graduation), I am full of nothing but hope and potential - and as any daytime sitcom will tell you, my life can only go south from here. Bad weather, a dead-end job, and an inexplicably fat, yet lovable husband. If this is truly what I'm looking at, this is the best possible time to go up in flames.

B) I don't believe in hell. (I said a fearful "just kidding" to the ceiling for each time I discussed the joke that is organized religion yesterday, but I'm confident in my findings today). Even if there was a hell, all my friends are going down with me, and if anyone could make it a party out of it, it's us.

C) If 2% of the world's population (theoretically the most devout Christians) really did get raptured into the sky, that also would be awesome. Those people are nuts (i.e. Harold Camping) - and the rest of the world would have a little more breathing room.

In all, I'm glad we're all (well, most of us anyway) still alive today. Should we learn anything, it is not to listen to cult leaders. But hell, what do I know?

DDS

I hate the dentist. I hate the dentist so much I didn't go for a year. I hate the dentist so much I have three cavities.

Today, a week after my first routine check-up in a year, I got a cavity filled. Just one of the three. They like to spread these things out at Dr. Patel's office.

When I say 'I got a cavity filled' it sounds like a routine procedure. Let me assure you, today was anything but routine. I waited for my dentist, an ambiguously aged Indian man who insists on spiking the hair above his forehead, even though it is four inches too long for this purpose. You know you are too old to spike your hair when there are visible grays.

He waltzes in after causing what only sounded like innumerable pain in the office to my right, and without much warning jammed a HUGE needle into my lower jaw.

Oh, hi. Didn't see you there. Oh, you're gonna keep that in there for a minute? Gotta jiggle my cheek to make sure you get it deep enough in there? Sweet. I'll just be here waiting for you to take it out. No, no, take your time. It's no problem, really.

He disappears as quickly as he arrived with a quick "Sorry!"

I proceed to have a panic attack and uncontrollable tears roll down my face as I imagine the horrors that await me once he comes back to feed upon the poor tooth he just paralyzed. I'm done for. The loop of anxiety overtakes me: He is going to fill a cavity. OH MY GOD he is going to drill in my mouth. Okay, think about something else. Something else. WHY CAN'T I THINK OF ANYTHING ELSE. It's just a cavity; people do this all the time. OH MY GOD HE IS GOING TO DRILL IN MY MOUTH.

Suddenly, the incredibly nice secretary shows up (she likely heard my sobs from down the hall) and asks me if I want her to turn the air on, or if I would like some soda. How can she think of room temperature at a time like this? What does soda have to do with anything? I'm not overheating, I'm simply having a panic attack.

Although her adult braces made me uncomfortable (adult-anything for that matter, is disastrous. Adult acne, adult onset diabetes, you name it), I was not about to be rude to her, so I let her turn on the air conditioning. This mistake is what caught me up in a feverish dance of indecisiveness. Was I overheating? Sure. Sweatshirt off. Shivers. Well, I guess it's too cold to overheat. Sweatshirt on. Why am I sweating? And so on...

Finally, he returns. I have just gotten my tears under control and the left side of my face is sufficiently numb when he drills away like a happy little dwarf mining rubies. Like all anxiously anticipated events, the actual drilling was far less traumatic than my 20 minutes of incessant blubbering - which lead me to the sad realization that at age 18 I am still not fit to visit the dentist on my own.

As I was leaving, someone mentioned to me that I needed to book an appointment for my next two cavities to be filled.

"You better give me drugs next time unless you want another scene like that!"

Heigh ho, heigh ho! Off to kill Tate we go...

Manorexia. A real thing?

"Dude I totally have workout bulimia."

"I did the Master Cleanse for 20 days once. I dropped like 10 lbs."

"Ugh that Chinese food was so much. I so wish I could throw up right now."

"Our diet starts tomorrow. I swear to god all we are gonna do is run."

"Could we go on a fruit and vegetable cleanse to start our group diet?"

"I wanna drop 40 lbs by the end of summer. They did way more than that on 'I Used To Be Fat."

The above quotes, believe it or not, are from a session spent in my friend's "cave", the basement hangout at their house. Yes, we spent a solid 45 minutes, including the walk we went on, conversing solely our respective weights and fitness goals. The methods among teenagers range from actively unproductive to extreme dieting - did I forget to mention the friends I was with were guys?

I understand guys wanting to "get big" - in their words - but to borrow tips from the eating disordered teenage girls next door and trying the get-thin-quick cleanses popular among housewives seems to go a bit far. Honestly, this conversation would never occur between two straight 18 year old men in any other place than Southern California. Living in the land of year-long beach weather has made us all a little neurotic about out appearances, I just never thought in escaping my girlfriends for an afternoon I would face the same conversations.

Case in point, Dennis Quaid of Hollywood, California's true state capitol:http://www.clickorlando.com/news/7965067/detail.html