Brush, Rinse, Spit.

I had an odd conversation with my toothbrush yesterday. Err, uh about—about my toothbrush. Ok, not necessarily my toothbrush but an extended metaphor involving dental hygiene and my marriage. I really do have one you know, a toothbrush. You'll be happy to know I use it. I know that people I talk to are pleased. They smile. I smile. No dangling black stuff. Everybody's happy.

Wouldn't it be nice if marriage were that easy? A few minutes a day and everything shines and smells like mint. So my marriage died, but my toothbrush, it's electric; it goes on. MyUnwife chose it. It has interchangeable heads and is really kind of cool. And if I hang onto it two more years, it will have lasted longer than we did.

Ok, that was bitter. But see, the stuff isn't why I got married. And that makes me shine like a glistening god of altruism. Lord Rob, Neon Paragon. Yes, you can touch me as you pass. I won't smudge; I've rinsed and flossed.

I gave her first fruits of everything. Sometimes I'm a little bitter about that, but not because of the stuff. More because I thought I married the type of person who wouldn't take it. Then again I thought I'd married the type of person who wouldn't drop when somebody shook the tree.

I guess the warm blanket here that I can wrap myself up at night in is this: I kept my toothbrush. The real one. The metaphoric one is gone, but I've got strong teeth, they'll hold out for a while.