Ode to Chompy . . . Two Weeks to Go

It's so close, my mouth is watering (or is this one of those hairy teeth moments that have plagued me for months?). Two weeks to go and I'll be saying farewell to six of my closest friends during the past six months. Yippee!
     Six friends in a singular package. In and out, depending on who I met face-to-face and wanted to impress or who I met and didn't really care what they thought of me. Sometimes, spontaneous "I can't believe what I'm seeing" reactions are priceless, and I'm in the mood for a little shocking excitement—the curse of working at home with no one to talk to except cats, dogs and horses. Yes, I have left them at home on purpose; other times, I'd be halfway to Publix, a 15 minute drive one-way, and have to turn around and go back home. "Shit, I forgot my teeth."
     I'll never have to say that again!
     I will never look on my bathroom counter and have them staring back at me. No more removable body parts! No more struggling to make them connect and knowing that it always takes two attempts. No more taking them out after a long day and my gums feeling like Sponge Bob. No more reminders of what I had for lunch. No more apologies for the slur in speech or the spitballs that shock even me. No more repeating myself to Len or to the woman on the other end of the phone because my first words were garbled and misunderstood; I took Southern to a whole new level.
     In the spirit of doing what you have to to get by, thank you chompy for making me look normal for the past six months. However, I will not miss you. I will not mourn your demise. You have confirmed my dental implant decision a million fold, and that was a very important job. You did it very well.