I’ve been getting my teeth cleaned for over fifty years, which means I’ve sat through half a century of post-cleaning sermons about proper brushing angles, gumline vigilance, and the sacred art of flossing. Every visit follows the same liturgy: I nod piously, vow to reform, perform my dental penance for about a week, and then relapse into plaque-friendly mediocrity. It’s a ritual as predictable as the changing of seasons—scrape, polish, scold, repent, repeat.
After yesterday’s cleaning, I shared this confession with the office manager as she booked my next appointment. “Be honest,” I said. “Aren’t most of your patients professional bums who show up expecting you to do all the work? I mean, no one actually earns an A in brushing and flossing. We’re all dental delinquents with F averages, right?”
She glanced at the waiting room, smiled the way a diplomat smiles before denying a scandal, and said, “No comment.”
I pressed on. “So… that’s a yes.”
Again, she said, “No comment,” which, of course, confirmed everything.
Righteous and vindicated, I strutted out with my little goodie bag of guilt—floss, travel toothpaste, and the latest ergonomic toothbrush engineered to fail against human laziness. I tossed it onto the passenger seat and drove home to take a nap, exhausted from an hour of scraping, moral instruction, and the eternal truth that no one—absolutely no one—flosses as much as they say they do.
Cinemorphosis 
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