When I go to the dentist, something's wrong in my mouth that's beyond my ability to ignore. All I want you guys to do is clean, patch, cap, or pull whatever is making me miserable. If I wanted a medal for bravery, I'd join the fucking army. If I wanted to let high-speed drills and sharp metal implements inside my face without the aid of nitrous, I wouldn't be asking for, paying for, and signing informed consent for nitrous. It's bad enough you, a dental assistant, act like I'm a big baby for requesting it, but I'm pretty sure that at my last appointment you crossed the line into actual fraud. I know what the nitrous I paid for smells like, and you gave me exactly one puff. If I just wanted nitrous, I'd go buy those little canisters for whipped cream. I wouldn't waste my time seeking mercy from you. I considered revealing that my anxiety and dry mouth date back to a dentist who mistakenly injected Novocain into my saliva gland, didn't believe I wasn't numb, and drilled anyway. But even if my anxiety were totally irrational, that wouldn't mean I shouldn't get nitrous. It's not like I'm trying to weasel you into giving me morphine for a hangnail, you cunt.—Anonymous