When the swelling goes down will I lose the Sean Connery accent?

I'm aware that my blogger profile picture is uncannily true-to-life this week. I don't mean that my relatives have taken a sadistic interest in me (though, come to think of it, they have). I mean that my rapid eating habits do not mesh with my "cosmetic" surgery.

No, I didn't get botox to improve my broadcasting career, or get someone to punch me in the nose so when Owen Wilson and I kiss our noses will hook together like the opposites attracting we are (he'll understand some day). I had a serious talk with my oral surgeon about making it possible for me to acquire a dubious scottish accent spoken through my teeth. Like you might do at a hair dresser, I showed him a sample - a recording of James Bond in Goldfinger. He scrutinized the tape, tapped his earring-on-a-pole, and said, "Laura, your wisdom teeth will do the trick."

I'm now worried that when the swelling goes down, I'll lose my ability to charm and gain stares in the hallway. Already I feel sexier. What can be more sexy than attracting stares from men and women from all walks of life? Sure, it could be the bruising. But I like to believe they're staring at me because I took the intiative to make myself more attractive. They're impressed at my brassy attitude and sexy lilting voice that says, "Darling, if I weren't James Bond, this would be considered rape."

In a few days, it may all be gone. You see, the form I made the surgeon sign (or did I sign the form?), didn't include a clause that guarantees the surgery's results will endure.

Staring at my profile photo, I'm thinking, maybe this is okay. After all, when my chin is numb, and I'm hungry after luring young women to divulge their secrets to me while simultaneously bedding them, I don't like to make a fool out of myself when I realize none of the food actually got into my mouth. It's not practical for a double-agent.

In the meantime, while I continue to mash my food like a dog eating celery, I resolve to enjoy being doted on by my mother, who regardless of what I say will reply with, "Laura, you're too cute. You want some salad? Oh, wait you can't eat that yet."

It's Sean Connery, okay? And I happen to like Pablum. It's good for my pores.