I’m not angry. I’m just hurt.

I thought we were on the same page. I thought we were working together on your oral hygiene. I thought you cared about dental upkeep and the long-term health of your teeth, gums, tongue and other parts of your mouth cavity. But I guess I was wrong. I see now that you played me for a fool. I see now that since the last time you emptied out your trash you have consumed seven 12 oz. bottles of Mountain Dew.

Who drinks soda any more? Are you a teenager playing Xbox with his friends? You are not. You are a 34-year-old balding male who lives alone and sells leads to mid-size insurance companies in Arizona. Your job, for which you sit in a chair and make phone calls for eight hours, ends at 5 pm everyday. You have no late-night hobbies. Why would you possibly need this much sugar and caffeine? So you can re-watch episodes of Game Of Thrones on your parents’ HBO GO account? You’re disgusting.

I sit trapped amongst evidence of 84 oz. of Mountain Dew consumption. That’s 378 milligrams of caffeine. That’s enough caffeine to put a large dog into cardiac arrest. Like an Irish Wolfhound. Have you seen an Irish Wolfhound? They look like skinny bears. That’s too much caffeine.

Sure, there were signs. When our three-month anniversary passed and you didn’t throw me out, I admit I should have known something was up. Yes, you were blatantly ignoring the industry-standard dentist recommendation to change your toothbrush every three months. I let myself think that you were attached to me, that you had a special connection to little old Colgate Full Head Medium Bristle, Product #A4-319. How could I not? Even though my blue bristle indicator had long since faded, alerting you that it was time we part ways, you kept me. And I was flattered. I admit it. But then not three but eight months passed. I should have known that it was your own dental negligence and not your affection for me that was keeping me around, but I let myself believe the lie. It was a beautiful lie and it made me happy.

That happiness receded like an over-brushed gum line the moment you chucked me into this garbage can and I found myself among this gaggle of Mountain Dews, taunting me with their brazen disregard for anyone looking to avoid dentures before the age of fifty. To add insult to injury, one of them was the “Code Red” flavor. What does that even mean? Never mind, I’ll tell you what it means. It means you need help.

Nestled up next to the Dews are the remnants of three microwaveable Lean Cuisine Low-Fat dinners. From this ratio, am I to infer that you have 2.3 bottles of Mountain Dew per meal? Here’s a tip: Get the regular-fat dinner option and hold off on the sugar water. You’re not a fucking hummingbird.

If you’re so set on destroying that smile of yours, why not just buy tartar and have it surgically inserted into your teeth?

Do you even appreciate all the times you’ve used my cleaning tip to brush those hard to reach areas? Did my polished, end-rounded bristles designed to be tough on calcium build-up but gentle on your enamel mean nothing to you? Did you use the same hand to hold my non-slip rubber ergonomic handle (simultaneously providing you with superior comfort and brushing control) that you used to chug that radioactive teeth-destroying swill?

You know, now that I think about it, I am angry. For months I thought we were working together to protect your porous teeth surfaces from plaque. Little did I know that all the while you were sending plaque late-night booty texts and leaving the front door unlocked.

Enjoy your adult-onset diabetes!