My Personal Chew-Toy

I often express myself with my teeth.

Ask any of the ballpoint pens in my house. They’ll tell you it’s true. Pocked bottoms, flattened caps, they’ve all been mutilated in a horrific, gruesome manner that would cause the most enthusiastic horror-film buff to run to the bathroom with his hands cupped over his mouth.

It’s that bad.

Sigmund Frued would’ve suggested that my chewing-on-things problem was a result of not having my oral needs met as an infant—to which I respond “ew” (But I respond “ew” to almost everything Frued has ever proposed). Personally, I believe that I chew on pens, and other household items, to keep myself from chewing on humans.

And no, this post is not a salute to Twilight.

If you are truly loved by me, you have, at one point or another, been munched upon by me. Whether a victim of a spirited velosiraptor attack of just a casual good-to-see-ya nip, you can’t help but feel bathed in the warmth of my love—even while massaging the teeth-shaped indentations from your skin.

There is one person, however, who has been chewed-upon more than any other. Ryan. He has endured exactly six years of my insatiable teeth (six in a half if you include our courtship) and, I must say, is better for it. I could write a whole book about how much I love this good-natured, hard-working, ruggedly-handsome, ridiculously-forgiving man. I love him so much and, even still, I can’t believe he chose me.

Thank you, Pooh Bear, for all that you are. These have been the best fang-dulling years of my life!



Happy Anniversary!