I appreciate what you do. Really. Having you bleed out my gums with semi-regularity makes me feel much less guilty about those occasional did-I-brush-my-teeth-last-night-because-my-teeth-feel-pretty-furry mornings. You don’t have to prove yourself to me, so feel free to stop holding up your stabby thing and saying, “See?! All this plaque was just on one of your molars.” Yes, okay. I believe you. I believe in plaque. We don’t need to see to believe. We don’t need to see plaque. You can keep it. I’m giving it to you, no strings attached. That’s why I’m here. Take it. Away.
I want to see that hand mirror of yours just about as much as I want to see the plaque. Hell, I want to grab the stabby thing, put it in my mouth and reclaim that plaque more than I want to be handed that fucking hand mirror. Just because “all this plaque” was in between my teeth does not mean I’ve never learned how to floss. Please. Chipmunky, over-caffeinated, ex-sorority girls like you have taught me how to floss at least twice a year—every year—for my entire life. I know you’ve seen me with Novocaine drool all over my face and it’s not hard to bridge that gap, but no—I’m not mentally handicapped. After twenty years, I think I can imitate some of the nuanced tactics your kind has demonstrated for me. The art of flossing does not elude me; it bores the shit out of me. It’s something I know how to do, but I could also figure out how to stab myself in the foot, pull out all of my hair, and stuff broken glass into my ears. (I’m resourceful, bitch. Yeah. I’m a college student.) This doesn’t mean I want to actually do any of these things. So, if you’d be so kind, please remove your mirror from in front of my face. Not only do I not care to see you floss my teeth for me, I’m not thrilled about seeing my chapped lips, overdue-for-a-good-tweezing upper lip, flaky-from-benzoyl-peroxide chin, or peppered-with-blackheads nose in this magnifying hand mirror, while sitting under florescent lighting and the little overhead light—which I’m pretty sure is made with pure Nevada sunshine—that you’re so keen on zapping my eyes with.
Maybe you should give it a rest with that light, anyway, if seeing the stains on my teeth are going to make you so uncomfortable. We could dim the lights a bit and they might look less offensive. Maybe this would preclude the Hmm, a little staining happening back here… I’ve gotten used to hearing as you hunch closer toward my mouth, double-fisting your weapons of choice. I think you would indeed remove said stains if you successfully scraped the enamel off of my teeth, and this seems to be your customary plan of action, but I rather like having enamel there. Even if it’s fun colors. ….Fun colors that I don’t even tend to notice. I am perfectly pleased with the color of my mediocre teeth.
And I’m not going to stop drinking tea just because you have OCD.
One last thing? Please don’t talk to me while you’re cleaning my mouth, because one of two things will happen—neither of them good. Either you will a) verbalize something so asinine (“Oh, theeeere’s your tonsils, alright!”) that I cannot possibly respond to it with more than a perfunctory chuckle, or b) start talking about something I actually care about. The latter can lead to two possible series of events—again, both unfortunate. Either a) I will realize that your hands are busy in my mouth, and I will hold back my defense of Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know,” (which is not ”such a weird song”), the effort of which will make me explode all over your office (at least then those stains on my teeth won’t seem like such a mess—gives you some perspective, doesn’t it, Beta Kappa Flossa?), or b) I will immediately start responding to your comment, despite the location of your hands, (in my mouth), and then I’ll accidentally bite you, and you’ll accidentally stab me with one of your contraptions, and the hand mirror will break, and the plaque will be everywhere, and all of it will have been in vain because your hands will have rendered my comments incomprehensible, anyway.
Maybe ours is a non-verbal relationship. But remember: it’s a relationship I care about. And I want you to know that from now on, I will always think of you when I floss my teeth.
Just kidding; I’m not going to do that.
…floss my teeth, I mean.
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