Mitth'raw'nuruodo, a Chiss That pack of dog days catches me up, a sweaty sciatica riot. (Riot: Anything hounds might hunt they that shouldn’t during a fox hunt.) Each Tere yip and Tere bark, is one more Tere taken in vain from me. (Tere: a diminutive of the name Teresa, an alternate spelling of Theresa.) My sanity wavers. As expected. This month it happened. After roughly twenty five years of losing teeth, I now have all that I need to chew food properly. There are no more gaps where an almond could try to cozy itself in as an extremely uncomfortable makeshift cuspid. No more need to favor one side for chewing. My mouth can’t believe how many teeth it is supposed to have. My tongue wants to push all unfamiliar shapes out the way. It must learn to be constrained and not be slipping out through the sides whenever it likes. There are subtle pronunciation changes I will have to adapt to– again– not that anyone who isn’t a linguistics major would notice. I remember I went t...