Notes On A Toothbrush

I always find it so very hard to part with a toothbrush. After all they are such trusty companions, day and night at the ready to dive head first into the moist black hole in the middle of your face. Never asking much in return except for a little scented paste for which to spruce up their bristles. Hand in hand they stand in the gummy trenches with you, fighting for freedom from the oppression of tooth decay and gingivitis ( the Mussolini and Hitler of your mouth ). Why must we simply just toss them away when their heads become soft and browned with mold? Is hygiene really that much more important of a value than friendship and loyalty? Is hygiene even a value? I don't know the answers to these questions, except for the first one which is of course no. I enjoy the gentle touch of an old toothbrush against my enamel, it's like the mature caress of an aging lover. With it come warm pangs of familiarity and security. You don't get distracted by the vanities of a first time encounter. Will they like what I do? Can I still perform? These questions are put by the wayside when you use a toothbrush who has been scrubbing you for weeks, or months or years. They know every tea stained inch of your chompers, its forever imprinted on the few remaining tufts of bristles that have managed to avoid disintegration. They know every sensitive cavity and snaggle tooth more intimately than anyone else ever possibly could. So when those bullies in the school yard start calling you tar mouth and rot gum because of the horrible oral infections you are prone to just remember that your old friend perched precariously close to the toilet in his trendy Ikea holder still has your back.