Dear Mr. Orajel.

I wrote this at four in the morning. I was angry.

I love the way you extricate my mouth of any type of pain, dull or prominent. I'll even go as far as to say that I love that bitter taste you leave abandoned in my mouth.

What I do not love, though, is you, Mr. Mouth. I don't enjoy the way you ever so inconveniently decide that it's time to give me a nice, painful cavity paired up with an ever so dreaded wisdom molar. I DO NOT love you at this present point in time, Mr. Mouth, but maybe we can reconcile at a later date.

Also, another love of mine, would be you, Mrs. M357. Your hyrdocodone/acetaminophen combination slowly obliterate my prevalent troubles of Mr. Mouth. Cradling your oval contour in my hand is enough to blasphemise that abhorrent feeling of Mr. Mouth's evil wrath.

Also, I love my grammatical works of art that you'll pry out of me only in the wee of the morning, with lack of sleep as my alibi.