Thursday, February 7, 2013

Does tonight’s post look relaxed to you? I hope it does. During a routine cleaning at the dentist today, I was told I’ve been grinding my teeth, a habit wholly new to me. Something–or some things–happened in the last six months to change my normally peaceful slumber into nightly anti-enamel rallies. You’ve got to understand, too, that dental check-ups are usually free of drama for me, with nary a cavity to drill, so this realization was like a punch to the gut.

I don’t feel particularly stressed. There are the usual phenomena to overcome in corporate and suburban life, to be sure, but nothing to cause such molar-shearing duress. One option, I was told, was to purchase a NightGuard, which promptly brought back memories of wearing a retainer in middle school. There are more expensive options as well, should the NightGuard prove ineffective. These options all sound equally unappealing to me, at this juncture, and instead I’m going to up the relaxation (or apathy) and just be more cognizant of when I’m clenching my jaw.

This probably goes double for when I’m playing Dead Space. This is supposed to conclude the trilogy, but at about six hours into the game, I couldn’t tell you what in fresh hell has happened on the narrative front. It’s real purty, though. The horror factor has been significantly neutered, frankly, since I’m braving it with a buddy. I’m sure I’ve also inoculated myself with my recent bingeing on the prior two entries. But during tonight’s session, I was haunted by thoughts of teeth. This level of meta-awareness was annoying, in a way, because it ruined the immersion. Imagine staring down a Lovecraftian horror and suddenly, jarringly wondering whether it grinds its teeth. It’s, like, “You have so many sharp ones, after all, and also I need to shoot off your head now.”