Hell

This will be the fifth Thursday in a row that I've gone to the dentist. This is the closest to hell I've ever come. Only a few more conditions are required for it to actually be my own personal Hell.

It's always Thursday. Before and after my dental appointments, I'm forced to watch a movie starring Jeff Goldblum and Nicolas Cage. The soundtrack is exclusively sung by Rod Stewart and Bryan Adams. It's a flick where Jeff Goldblum and Nicolas Cage are after the same woman, but you never see the woman. Instead, the movie merely traces the two characters as they go about their lives, complete with voiceovers of what each is thinking about the mysterious woman at that specific moment. Next to me on the couch is Donald Rumsfeld, constantly asking himself, and then answering, questions about the movie.

To eat, there are only vegetables. No butter. No cheddar cheese. Rumsfeld, next to me in his underwear, asks, "Should I eat this carrot? It's very possible; we'll have to find out." To drink, only banana slurpees.

When it's time to sleep, I'm alone. But Donald, separated from me by only a thin wall, is banging a different woman from my past every night to a blaring duet by Rod Stewart and Bryan Adams. "Yeah, you like that? Your noises indicate that you do."