Did I brush my teeth? Damn it, I can’t remember. OK, think harder. Yes. Yes, I recall flossing, but then I also recall getting distracted by the scent of an onion patch exploding from my right armpit.
I think I went to apply more Secret clinical-strength carcinogen-fresh antiperspirant. Then I may have gotten caught up in a cost-benefit analysis of becoming a uniboob verses opting not to use a stinky pit as an inadvertent self-defense mechanism at work.
By the time I was done filling out the mental Venn Diagram, I believe I had started checking my e-mail, only to click on an ad for the new Hannah Montana CD.
God, she’s so hot right now. That flowing hair and her provocative relationship with her dad/molester. I wonder if he drives a windowless van. I saw so many of those when we were house hunting in Dana Point the other weekend.
I guess I’m glad that Realtor never called us back about that sweet house, the one with the panoramic views of the ocean and gang members plotting to shoot me in the face. Maybe even directly in the teeth.
And I just paid to get that filling fixed, so man would that be a waste of money. When I brushed it earlier it didn’t feel that sensitive. Oh, wait. That’s because I never did brush it.
The toothbrush is still sitting on the sink with a fresh blob of Crest on its dry bristles. So, no actually. I didn’t brush my teeth yet. Oh, look! A hummingbird!
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