I never think about brushing my teeth. I don’t brush them like I love them. They get brushed as though they are taken for granted, as though the act of brushing them is resented, an affront. My teeth get brushed fast, brutal. Sometimes my gums recede a bit because I brush too hard. I flip on the lights that blind my fat animal sleep senses, lean into the mirror to gaze blearily at my face, then reach for the tooth powder. Which is still under the sink instead of in the medicine cabinet, and I remind myself every morning you-gotta-move-that-into-its-container-soon, but I know that day is not today. I flip the cap up with my thumbnail, and it hurts a little bit. I know it will and get a little angry at the pain before it even comes. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I dash out some powder into my palm. It’s always too much.  – then wet my toothbrush, scoop it up, slide my wet sullied palm on the bath towel, and brush. The movements are mechanical, rote. I flex and pulse my leg up and down and watch it in the mirror instead of my face. Always the one leg, never the other. Then the dreaded tongue. These rituals of self-torture that evolve so slowly I don’t even know how they happened. I brush the front of my tongue – so far so good – then move to the root, at the very back, and know it’ it’s going to make me gag. When it of course does, I have to brush back there again. And again. Gag again, brush again. The goal is to have a successful root-of-tongue brushing without gagging. The gagging makes my mouth unclean. It’s a sick game nobody wins, no prizes, only gagging until I gag for real and then mentally cry uncle. Brush the front of my teeth once more for luck. Rinse the toothbrush, put it away. Grimace smile in the mirror to make sure – what? That I got off all the plaque? Now that’s done, perfunctory, over. I won’t think about the white obelisks in my mouth for another full day.