You’ll no doubt remember that Book on Tape Worm is on vacation because Scott’s in Hawaii and Emily’s preparing to leave for London. Where, then, does that leave a certain shorter-than-average cellist? Allow me to wax poetic while I describe what summer had in store for this one.

While my bandmates sipped coconut milk and planned overseas exploits, I went to Texas to pay a visit to the friendly neighborhood oral surgeon. I’d been told a year earlier that I needed a procedure done. This procedure consists of unspeakable butchery and should only be spoken of in the smallest of whispers. Dental professionals call it a gingival graft, but don’t be fooled by the jargon—this business is raw like sushi. It doesn’t help that I’m also terribly frightened of dentists.

The day of the surgery found me wearing my baggiest jeans and my most lavender shirt. A dark shirt would’ve hidden any dribbles of carnage, you see, and I wanted to wear those battle wounds as a badge of courage for any dentophobes I’d encounter.

As I walked into the surgical compound I couldn’t help but notice the great lengths some interior designer had gone to to disguise the true purpose of the place. The walls were painted with murals of a Mediterranean seascape and there was a waterfall in the reception area. This did nothing to assuage me; you know you’re in trouble when someone wants you to think you’re in a spa.

The receptionist asked me if I’d like tea, coffee or water, and I wanted to say “None of the above, you imbecile, I’m not allowed to eat or drink because of the surgery YOU scheduled,” but my boldness seemed to dissipate with a disappointing splash into that blasted waterfall.

We had a meeting with the doctor and anesthesia was discussed. I protested with “No, I’m 21, I don’t need that stuff,” but they countered with a swift “Yes, dear, you do need it.” I felt like hiding my face in my shirt, which was not helping to establish my adulthood.

I sat down in the chair with my fate sealed and doom hovering inevitably over me. This is as bad as it gets, I thought as the anesthesiologist started my IV. No breaking of bones or tearing of limbs or birthing of children would ever compare to the grotesque and excruciating nature of this….

And then I woke up. Don’t be fooled by the seemingly immediate character of the verb “woke,” though. Waking was a thirty minute process wherein I was dragged out of a deep, slippery sedation by the bootstraps of my conscious mind. This was neither comfortable nor polite.

They gave me instructions, prescriptions, but I was too busy being pathetic to pay attention. I tried to tell jokes on the ride home but my mouth didn’t feel connected to the rest of my face.

Strange things began to happen the next day. I couldn’t eat, so the top half of my face was gaunt from the lack of caloric intake, but the bottom half was swollen beyond recognition. My jaw was a bruised yellow and my chin bore a striking resemblance to Jay Leno’s. I was the Elephant Man.

This disfigurement lasted two weeks, but the worst part was the involuntary yogurt diet. Soft foods are just fine for babies and the French, but I cannot live on mashed potatoes alone! Eating a hamburger for the first time was a more poignant experience than I can describe.

I’m back at school now, and I’ve healed up for the most part. I don’t have any pictures of the ordeal, which I suppose is for the best. All that matters is that I traveled the road of periodontics and didn’t die. I think that’s all we can really ask from our medical professionals— make me better, and don’t kill me in the process.

Postscript: Miss you, Shepard and Brown.