My teeth revolt and decide to leave my head. For five hours I am collapsed onto the floor as each of my teeth painfully remove themselves from my gums. Blood drips from my mouth and onto the carpet. I stand up, woozy from the pain, and stare down at my liberated teeth. The left incisor, marked by a gleaming white filling, seems to be the leader. Together, they march out the door, leaving behind little bloody toothprints. The wisdom teeth, contrary to their moniker, are slow and clumsy, fat and dimwitted.

I sit down on the couch and think about the loss of my teeth. I’m incredibly angry. I look at the carpet, at the large bloodstain that marks the beginning of their revolt and all the little spots they made when they left. The rest of the evening I spend removing the carpet, ripping it up from the floor and tossing it out into the yard. Exhausted, I retire for the night.

Thoughts race through my head. I can’t just go about my life with no teeth. I’ll have to get dentures. But I can’t afford dentures. What will I do until then? Perhaps I could grow a large, Nietzschean mustache. It will only be a matter of time, however, before my lips and cheeks begin to curve inward and I’ll look like all those homeless guys downtown.

I call in to work the next day and tell them I need a week off. When they ask what for I tell them I can’t feel my legs and can’t see out of my left eye. They tell me that sounds serious and I tell them it is. I put orange peels in my mouth, like kids do, only I don’t smile. I keep my mouth closed. The peels are only there to give the illusion of teeth. I go to the store and stock up on soups.

The next two days pass in a wave of black depression.

One night, as I’m lying in bed, my teeth come back to me. Most of them do, anyway. The left incisor, the ringleader, reeks of liquor and cheap perfume. The right incisor smells like smoke. The left eye tooth smells like the outdoors. Perhaps he went camping or something. The wisdom teeth are missing and I imagine the others had to leave them behind. I wonder if they will ever be back and realize I would not miss them at all. The teeth climb into my mouth, rearranging themselves continuously, as if they can’t remember where they belong. Once positioned (I’ll have to look in the mirror tomorrow to find out if they are all in the right spot) they work themselves back into the partially healed gums. This is a lot more painful than when they had removed themselves. It’s so painful, in fact, I pass out. Perhaps, I think, as I slide into blackness, I’ll need to get braces to ensure they never escape again.