Gary

Today I came back to an old toothbrush, let’s call him Gary (that’s not gay, is it?). It’s strange that we don’t form a deeper bond with our toothbrushes, as they spend their active time in the most intimate areas of our mouths, reaching and kissing cavities even our tongues cannot contact.

Gary was showing his age. I’ve been using newer models in other houses: ones where the bristles are strong and unforgiving, sharp and penetrating. Guaranteed to make your gums bleed like crying children.

But Gary has as much cleaning power as filling your face with rice pudding. It feels like a wet J-cloth gliding through my mouth, not so much cleaning my teeth as making love to them. I guess that would make the foaming paste the jizz, which appears in such horrific quantities, my teeth must be very satisfied.

Sometimes I like to pretend that the foam isn’t toothpaste at all, but instead the froth of rabies. I take great pleasure in watching it spill over my chin into the sink, like the flow of lava from a volcano; unstoppable and prodigious. Sometimes I spit and cough, spluttering violently and dramatically, swinging from the taps. If I’m feeling energetic I might gnash my teeth and stalk the house for victims, eliciting the terrified responses, “I just cleaned this shirt!”