operascrypta

Epistle: The Peanut Assassin (November 16-19, 2025)

Friends, the life of a homeless author is not just difficult, it is a live minefield where a mild inconvenience, like a cracked tooth, detonates into a crisis. Last Wednesday, a bag of delicious, air-fried Japanese style peanuts nearly took me out. Pleased as punch after posting some new work, I was happily chomping on a handful, savoring the crunch—CRACK! I still get shivers down my spine thinking about it.

By Thursday, the constant, dull throbbing in my tooth was no longer just a pain; it was the cruel, beating drum of my destitution, ticking off the seconds until true disaster. "What am I going to do?" The question played on a relentless loop in my skull, feeding the panic. I just knew there was an infection gathering strength, a microbial demon that, without immediate action, could rob me of my ability to focus, to write, to survive.

Friday, I managed to purchase benzocaine, antiseptic mouthwash, and naproxen sodium. I started using the mouthwash every few hours to keep my mouth as clean as possible, relying on the benzocaine and naproxen for pain management.

I spent the weekend at The Spot trying to rest in my truck and tend to my dental issue. It was a fog of nap, naproxen, and antiseptic rinse; repeat. My interventions were enough to quiet the savage, escalating fear that I'd be forced to procure a pair of pliers and perform my own crude, bloody field dentistry. Yet, beneath that deceptive calm, the fear of an abscess—a slow, septic descent into oblivion—began to claw at my resolve.

Monday morning, I woke from the tooth's unrelenting pulse of pain. In the rearview mirror of my truck—my makeshift infirmary—the fear was made manifest: the gum above the cracked tooth was a gargantuan, enraged monument to infection. An abscess had formed. "Just great, I haven't survived all this fucking bullshit to die homeless from a septic infection brought on by a goddamn peanut." The anger was a shield for the cold fear swelling inside me. My military medical training had armed me with the precise, sickening knowledge of how quickly an abscess can turn into a serious medical emergency without proper care and antibiotics. I was beyond concerned.

Yesterday, I was trying to keep my mind occupied and work on my writing. I had constantly been feeling the abscess with my tongue and by this point it was noticeably large and uncomfortable. As I prodded the monstrous thing with my tongue, I felt a slight, muffled pop. A hot, blood-tasting soup of fluid flooded my mouth. The release of pressure was so sudden it felt borderline euphoric, and I lunged for the antiseptic mouthwash. Revolting and disturbing as the event was, it was a profound relief.

I am happy to report that as of this morning, the pain is receding, and the abscess appears to be healing. It's not over yet, but I may yet live long enough to finish The Savannah Story: Part One—a small victory won against a deceitfully delicious, murderous rogue peanut.