I had that dream again.

You know, the one where all your teeth are falling out?

Yeah, that one.

I mean, we all have that dream. All the time. Sometimes, our teeth crumble like dust. Maybe quickly or maybe over what seems like weeks. Other times, our teeth fall out one by one, the first one wiggling for a good long while, but the others tumbling afterwards like candy from a Pez dispenser.

Everybody knows what the teeth-falling-out dream means: Insecurity, helplessness, fear of abandonment, blah, blah, blah. The standard stuff.

One thing I’ve noticed about all my teeth-dreams is that my mum and dad are always there. I know that sounds horribly childish, but there it is.

There’s something about parents that reassures you that, despite losing all your teeth, they’ll still be there for you. Alas, your friends and lovers may desert you, but never good ol’ mummy. Plus dad, in his infinite wisdom, will always know what to do with your dental situation, even if all you have left is a mouthful of dust.

Anyways, mine started with the molar.

It hadn’t fallen out yet, but it was wiggling pretty damn persistently. But then I ran my tongue over some other teeth and noticed they were wiggling too.

Panic-stricken, I ran downstairs and found my dad. He was just about to leave.

“Dad,” I pleaded like a five-year-old, “My teeth are falling out! What do I do?”

Dad, in all his practical ways, pulled out a bottle of superglue from his pocket and grinned.

“You apply some of this when it falls out,” he said. “Press for forty to sixty seconds and allow to dry in a cool place.”

Luckily, I managed to realize that was pretty shitty advice.

So I just ran back upstairs and waited.

The molar came out. Eventually.

I noticed as I held it that it was larger than usual — about the size of half my palm.

Then I looked up at the mirror and grinned.

That’s when they all fell out.

Every damn one.

And then I woke up.

No time to write, tonight.

I know, I know. Don’t look at me like that.

I’ll see if I can fit ya in, real soon, m’kay?

1. It’s 2008. Four years ago, I was a geeky, awkward, angst-ridden high school teenager. My, things haven’t changed at all.

2. Research is lagging. Must re-focus.

3. Man, Zooey Deschanel. She’s so fine. She’s so fine she blows my mind.

4. I miss having a cat. Is “loneliness” a likely cause of early death? I hope so.

5. Time to get my life in order. No more excuses. It’s 2008.

Every day, when I wake up, I weigh the pros and cons of,

Lately, it’s always been A, A, and A, you know?

Work is more important, I guess.

But then I started thinking: On Saturdays or Sundays — a day like today — when nobody comes in, why not work at the office in a pant-free environment?

Is the minimal, inconsequential risk of being caught, humiliated, and made the departmental weirdo not worth the carnal delights of smooth, non-chafed buttocks and the opportunity to feel the crisp, cool air on your loins — all the while doing earth-shattering mathematical research?

Your call, dear readers.

Can you believe this summer will mark the passing of four years since (my) graduating high school?

The troubling thing is I can’t decide whether things have really improved since then. Has life moved quickly or slowly since that fateful year in 2004? Have I grown up or am I still the same? Is the future brighter or is everything still a mystery?

I can’t decide. Certainly, four years is a milestone. At least, it feels like it should be.