HEAD ROOM
I went to the dentist recently. Her name’s Lisa Simpson. Love that, what a gas. She’s the daughter of the man I’ve called dentist since the fourth grade. Despite this history, I managed to learn something new on this particular visit. She looks into my mouth and promptly declares I have a torus. A whatus, I wonder? “A bony protrusion.” In my case, of the palate. A small slightly raised perfectly centered roundly oblong bit that I’ll liken to a fin of sorts. I thought everyone had this, that it was part of the palate. How’d I miss this? I’m deformed, you say? Well, I like it. I’m keepin’ it. (Are there other options?) When I got home, I was uber disgusted by what I found online that passes for a torus when not on the palate. Yuckorama. Growth city. Lumpy, bumpy polyp-like. (Can I say no offense? Too late?)
At any rate, I’m happy with my torus and feel my mouth’s somehow earned street cred.