Tired, humble, still unsure of myself, I sit at my desk and wonder when the last time I wrote was, when I wrote something really profound, something I was proud of. I wonder when the last time I read a good book, why I've stopped doing both, what I'm worried about, what's keeping me from doing the things I love. I concern myself with things outside of these things, I'm depressed for reasons that keep my from doing things that might get me out of this depression, though, there are other things that prove to be the cure for this. Still, I wonder what the ultimate cure is. When I'll be healed. I sit alone with the BBC in the background. Heidi in the closet waiting for the lights to go out. But I can't sleep. My body's tired but my mind won't put it in the rack. I'm not done.

I'm excited about stuff. There's much to look forward to. I rub my tongue across my front teeth and they feel rough. Fuck, it's plaque. How did this build up? I wonder. What's become of my dental health? I worry. There's this part of me, though, that's comforted by this feeling. Like I'm in control of things in my life that somewhat seem out of control. I can't control plaque. But I can tame it. There's a grasp, all I have to do is brush.

Like I can check out these books and make time to read them. I can set down my laptop and set myself in front of it to type on it. I can close the door behind me and write, write, write. Still, I wonder why. Or what it is that will mean anything. Who will read it, who my audience is. Does that make it feel better. No. I'm writing, reading for myself. I'll brush my own teeth, thank you.

The BBC rattles off market numbers. Ratios. Up. Down. Down, mostly. I rub again my tongue to my teeth. They feel smooth in the front but rough behind. I'll go brush them when I feel like it. But will it matter? "The earlier you start flossing the longer you'll have your teeth," a voice from the past tells me. And my thoughts rattle off: advice. My fingers dance across the keyboard as I get bored and tired and still and achy.

I reach for water, to hydrate. I swish around the water through the gaps of my plaquey teeth when I think about someone that's not here. And also the one that is here, the one that will remain here until there is no here that's recognizable. Then, I think about the content, the things to read and see and speak of and that's when I realize: I'm brushing for me. It's such a selfish gene.