If I were some sort of tooth-rotting confection, I'd have a brightly colored hard candy shell with a syrupy filling. Of this I am certain.
What you are looking at is a picture of a container that formerly held four pounds of candy beans. Now there are about a couple of fistfuls left. I don't really remember the jar ever really being in an intermediate phase. There was that first day heady day, like the first day of a romance, when I savored the unique flavor of each bean on the tip of my tongue. One crazed glucose binge later, I found myself in an alleyway, an empty jar of candy beans my only companion in this cold, sugarless world.
What will my dentist say? I've been flossing more frequently, mostly out of guilt, in a feeble attempt to reverse the damage. I can see his face now: the hair parted down the middle, the oval wire spectacles, the turquoise rectangular face mask that bobs as he expertly asks yes/no questions about how my life is going. My dentist is one of two Cuban-Chinese dentists of whom I am aware (so grammatical it almost sounds wrong). The other Cuban-Chinese dentist is one of my high school friend's dads. I recommended to her once that they (her dentist dad and my dentist) make an exclusive club.
I suppose they'd have to flip a coin to decide who gets to be President.
