Braces

I got braces last week, and apparently I know nothing about the world. These small pieces of metal and a few dabs of glue are supposed to reorganize a skeleton and shock it into compliance; dental work always seems to conquer the England to its Rome, and destroy everything in the base line. They are minuscule when compared to the immensity of our bones, and still by using the powers of good form they are able to civilize a mess of enamel and plaque into an orderly smile. There must be something I am missing here, because the small can only spin the wheel together, and until then they must ride the tide. The braces at at a disadvantage of one; my right canine is rotated enough so that there wasn't even room. Lesson one in Mr. P's physical science class: when two forces oppose, the outcome will always be zero, positive, or negative. And we are hovering at around thirty to twenty-nine.

If a city of over-acheivers stood up with me and took a rickety subway rail to Zuccotti, we would spill out into the street in every direction and some of us would get run over my speeding taxis. But no one would burst from a Wall Street building to contest us. There aren't enough people in the world to rival the stigma of smallness. In order to start our war, we have to grow a little first.