Fang #1 has begun to sprout. You realize what this means, don’t you?

It means I will be able to tear the gristle off a rare t-bone steak with authority, instead of gumming it off like I’ve been doing. It means I will be fitted for a mouth piece to protect my lone chiclet from the counter punches of everything that I currently enjoy punching. It means I may forgo the use of a can opener when I want some Spaghetti-O’s. It means that I can, and will, bite the hand that feeds. It means that Dad will have to stop saying my mouth looks like that of a catfish, and instead acknowledge that it now looks like that of a fanged catfish. It means that I’m a one-man ear/nose/tongue/naval-piercing machine. (Fees may apply.) It means I will have to procure a tooth brush, and eventually a teeth brush. (I’m guessing there is a difference.) It means when I start talking, I will be able to lie through my tooth. It means I can start shopping for a jewel-encrusted grill.

It also means that I reserve the right to remain mildly irritable, if not completely pissed off.