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My favorite moment of being a dental hygienist thus far was getting to clean my douchebag ex’s teeth a month ago.

Entering the room to see Ronny reclining on the operation bed like a helpless shapeless sack of asswipes was the highlight of my career. I felt this thrill surge up my spine, I rolled up my sleeves, I couldn’t stop smiling. Oh, Ronald. I’m gonna fuck you up so bad you’ll wish you never met me.

Of course, lil shit for brains was less than enthusiastic about having me as his hygienist. He tried to get a replacement, but this is my town, you saggy bitchtit. The people in this office are on MY side.

To draw out the suspense, I do the usual scraping and brushing quietly. No words, no small talk he won’t be able to answer because of the sharp tools in his mouth, no comments about his shitty upkeep. Just silence, and enjoying him gawking at me with his jaw wide open as I prepare to figuratively shit in his mouth.

At the very end—flossing time—I strike. I go deep. I put my arm into it, wielding my spearmint wax string like a pair of nunchucks. I slice that motherfucker in the gums again, again, and again, just like he sliced my heart into a million pieces. It’s a bloodbath.

I love being a dental hygienist.