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.01 the eggs .02 the toothbrush .03 apparatus
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THE TOOTHBRUSH [read in romanian]
I always wash my teeth in the morning.
If I don’t do it I wake up completely and feel frustrated all day long.
Today I conformed to the habit of washing my teeth while peeing and while the coffee filter sends out a promising grumble.
Only, my toothbrush was no longer in its place.
I started desperately looking for it, as if I had lost the love of my life.
I look under the water basin, where the pipes merge appallingly… maybe it fell…
Nothing.
I start looking in the tub, the basin, the toilet bowl.
Nothing.
Despair urges me to look even in the most ridiculous places.
My toothbrush simply seemed to have disappeared without a trace.
Unsatisfied habits generate long term frustrations.
Where the hell did I read that?
This reminds me that I had not looked in the book case.
But neither Baudrillard nor Nietzsche was washing his teeth.
At least, not at that moment. I wonder how were these geniuses washing their teeth?
See, for me, God died today. I mean, not philosophically, but for real.
For along with my toothbrush I lost a part of me.
An important part of my habits and of what I am. And I lost my faith.
I no longer believe in anything as long as I can’t brush my dental decay.
Nothing could determine me to forget.
It feels as if my mouth is a dental mixture of fillings and saliva.
Desperate, I run to the bathroom and decide to wash it using water and my finger.
Now the toothpaste is no longer in its place either.
I feel I’m going mad.
Where the hell can that damn toothbrush be?
Again I start madly looking under the pillows, in closets and back to the book case.
It seems to be fated. All roads take me there. What am I going to do?
All those stupid writers, poets and philosophers smile to me with their white, immaculate teeth.
What could they be washing their teeth with?
I promise to buy two dozen toothbrushes to make sure I don’t miss them in the morning.
I’ll put one under my pillow for fear my mistresses might steal it from me.
They are crazy and have no sense of right and wrong. One of them stole my condom.
How the heck didn’t I feel a thing?
I remember the toothbrush and it’s nowhere to be seen.
I run out to my neighbors to ask them if they saw my toothbrush by chance.
The old hag next door screams I am raping her; the young guy with a hangover, from the second floor burps pleasantly and shouts four letter words to me.
For the rest, there is no answer.
What a stupid world with stupid habits.
They go to work, they come back from work.
They drink manioc, they beat their wives.
Such serious business.
A siren howls in front of the apartment block.
I hurry on to the terrace, not only to see what is going on, but it crosses my mind that the toothbrush might be in the area.
I hear fists thundering on my door and before I open it a couple of huge guys dressed in white put the door down and jump over me.
One is trying to hold me and the other is tying me as good as he knows.
Everybody out in the hall are shouting and making comments.
Meanwhile the two guys are brutally dragging me and hitting my head onto the walls.
My eyes focus on the door rug.
My cat, smiling with white teeth is chewing on a toothbrush.
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© razvan ion
