I got a tooth sick. The dentist looked and said, “Remove.” Remove it, so remove it. Eight is not a pity. I come from the surgeon. This surgeon comes out, the uncle is so impressive, 40 years old. I start smiling, blinking, complimenting all sorts of things (the guy is trying to somehow delight me before the execution). I sit in a chair. The injection. I wait. The surgeon smiles and pretends he likes me so much. Takes the tool, carefully pulls out my tooth.

Then, smiling again, he asks:

Are you a girl, not married?

I think, “Here’s the claw. Maybe I really liked him...” I say:

No, not married

He answered me so seriously:

Well, you hurry, but the less teeth, the harder it will be to do.