The Worst Job in the World

Someone else always has it worse.

I’ve got the worst job in the world.

Doesn’t matter whether the giant puts me upside down or right-side up. Either my hair doesn’t dry or I come home to a place that smells like feet.

She squirts white cream on my hair and scratches me all across her gunky teeth. Sometimes the cream is black. Sometimes it’s blue. Sometimes multiple colors. The smell’s usually nice.

The odor of her tongue and whatever comes out of her mouth, not so much.

Weekdays aren’t so bad. I get a morning shift and a night shift, and that’s all.

Weekends are worse. I get an extra shift in the middle of the day.

I still haven’t decided whether I prefer it when she uses me before or after her first meal of the day. She’s inconsistent, especially when she gets into deep talks with friends from other cultures about daily habits.

One day, she drops me on the bathroom floor and rushes off to the work.

Then I realize I don’t have the worst job in the world.

A voice whispers next to me. “Hi, Toothbrush. I’m Toilet Brush.”

Dash Ip does spend quite a bit of time thinking about toilet habits. Fortunately, none of it features in his novel.