My mouth tastes like metal.

No, I am not slowly turning into some sort of cyborg, although that would be extremely awesome. This past week brought me the event I have not been looking forward to for about a month now -- a root canal.

I would like to pretend the need for a root canal wasn't my fault, that I was the victim of some sort of tooth revolt, where they all turned against me to have their toothy needs met. Sure there would be casualties in the great tooth rebellion, but it was for the greater good, they would have what they so longed for. Though I'm not sure why teeth would stage a rebellion -- copious amounts of floss and toothpaste?

No, there was no great rebellion, just me rebelling against common sense. I sipped soda after soda in front of my computer, blaming my journalistic need for caffeine for the drinks.

Alas, my dalliances with diet sodas caught up with me. It started with a mild tingle, a questionable feeling, but not what I would call bothersome. Eventually it became more pronounced, but I ignored it as I continued working on my move to North Dakota.

I started chewing on the left side of my mouth, less I anger the beast currently living within the cavernous confines of my tooth. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore.

I figured my quick jaunt to the dentist would result in a mundane conversation of "Yep, that's a cavity" and after scheduling an appointment I would move on with my life. That was not the case.

After a cleaning, terrifying phrases began to be exchanged between the dentist and his assistant.

"Costly..."

"If she wants to keep the tooth..."

"Flossing..."

Though I had never given it much thought before, I was very focused on keeping my tooth. He had never done anything bad to me to deserve to be evicted in such a way. Well, besides the blinding pain whenever I dared to eat a handful of peanuts.

So I scheduled an appointment. My boyfriend was less than helpful about the business of removing my fears.

"You're going to smell your tooth burning," he said nonchalantly.

This was met with the same amount of abject horror as if he said, "They plan on murdering you."

Tuesday found me in the dentist's office.

I greeted the front desk staff and headed for the bathroom. I stared deep into my green eyes, frozen in fear. (Did I mention this was my first root canal?)

"Were the sodas worth it?" I asked myself.

Kind of.

I went back to the waiting room and -- waited.

Eventually my name was called and I found myself sitting in a different chair. The dentist and his assistant went to work.

My curiosity got the best of me as I eyed the different instruments. That was a bad idea. Who invited the drill to the party? Certainly not me.

I forced my eyes upward, demanding myself to avoid all eye contact with anything pokey or jabby.

I think the drill could tell I was attempting to ignore him, because it started making grinding and grumbling noises. And somewhere in the midst of all of this, I smelled something strange.

I can only assume it was my tooth burning, but I couldn't ask, seeing as I wasn't really able to utter much more than a "murph" when asked a question.

I stared at the ceiling again and asked myself the question I had posed in the bathroom. Was the soda worth it? Not so much.

So there it is. I'm off the fizzy stuff.

And just like that, it was over. My dentist informed me he was able to keep my tooth in its rightful place, but I have to come back in two weeks.

I guess like the Panama Canal, this might take more than just one day. Hopefully by then, the metallic taste is gone. Either that or I have entered phase two of my cyborg transformation.

I bet cyborgs don't have to floss.