Tommyrot

The only real concern I have with the vibrations in my blood — the ones that make my hands shake, my heart flutter, my arms shudder, and my stomach upchuck — is what they’re doing to my teeth. The routine vomiting is taking a toll.

My psychologists say I have a “nervous disorder.” They say I’m a “neurotic person.” They say I “fixate on trivial endeavors.” They say I “care about things no one else would ever worry about in a million years.” They say I’m this. They say I’m that.

But they don’t take care of their teeth the way I take care of mine.

I once had a doctor that smoked cigarettes, at least a pack of Marlboros a day. He confessed his sins to me during one of my first appointments with him. And of course, just as I had predicted, he had an excuse for his gluttony.

If you haven’t noticed, addicts tend to have an answer for everything.

The sinner’s excuse, his one reason for his behavior, was that his job was “stressful.” Furthermore, he tried explaining to me, for some reason, that “everyone has a vice.”

Of course, I switched providers immediately, citing those yellow, decaying incisors that spit out new ailments and “recommendations” to me every week. What a joke. You’re supposed to be the image of health. It’s laughable that I can taste your halitosis when you’re diagnosing me.

Truth be told, the sinful doctor’s situation set my teeth on edge. If these so-called doctors, these “geniuses,” can’t take care of their oral hygiene, (quite literally the bare minimum), who’s to say they can be trusted at all?

Words escaping decayed mouths are decayed themselves.

This concept, ultimately, has bothered me greatly for many years. The only solution I’ve found to this issue is to polish my teeth regularly, which, as far as I’m concerned, is the only way to respond.

The schedule I’ve settled on for my own care is flossing and brushing once in the morning, brushing once before meals, brushing and flossing once after meals, brushing once before bed, and brushing once during the night.

Brushing my teeth is a meditation. Brushing my teeth is a relief from the real world and the constant judgment. This being said, I know in my heart that the morning purge renders the nine o’clock brush fruitless. And this is a problem I haven't been able to solve myself.

So, I made the mature decision to speak to someone.

It took quite some time for me to make the appointment, but I knew my molars were rotting day in and day out. There was simply no way of knowing when I would be unable to continue my dental regiment, so once I felt truly ready for some advice, I set it up and we were finally able to connect.

After settling in, he began to speak. The first few minutes were cordial, but at a certain point, I made what feels like the obvious decision to interrupt his small talk. At a certain point, enough is enough! I’m paying to talk to you for thirty minutes, I’m not paying to listen to you about anything. That’s your job -- to listen. “Genius.”

So, like anyone else would have, I simply thought, “Enough about you, you narcissistic buffoon, my teeth are rotting while you babble.”

So I said that exactly.

Oh, how I regretted this.

I continued my briefing. Sick to my stomach, I explained my experiences and concerns to my therapist, who up to this point was someone who I knew and trusted, and even admired at one point. He knew of my proclivities.

But the snaggletoothed fuck just stretched his smile a mile wide.