Each night, is the same, the ritual unfolds with sacred precision. My toothbrush, a humble wand of vibrating hygiene, stood ready. The toothpaste tube, half-squeezed and slightly crumpled, awaited its cue… But on this night, the ceremony took a turn.
As I pressed the tube’s corner against the damp bristles, something shifted. The tension built—rubber meeting resistance, bristles flexing like a drawn bow. And then, betrayal.
The toothbrush snapped back with the fury of a trebuchet, launching a glob of minty gel straight into the cosmos of my face. A direct hit. My right eye, the unsuspecting target, bore the brunt of the blast.
Pain bloomed instantly. Not the dull ache of a stubbed toe or the sting of a paper cut—this was a mint-fueled ocular inferno. My eye watered, my dignity dissolved, and the soothing ritual of bedtime was replaced by frantic rinsing and whispered curses.
I stood there, blinking through the burn, toothpaste dripping from my lashes like some tragic clown of oral hygiene. The toothbrush lay in the sink, smug and silent. The tube, still clenched in my hand, offered no apology.
Eventually, the pain subsided. The eye survived. But the ritual was forever changed. Now, each night, I approach the toothpaste with reverence—and a healthy dose of fear.