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By: Elizabeth Rodgers

I drag my feet into the bathroom; the taste of a long day is sitting in my mouth. I recall why I left my room: “It’s late, and I need to go to bed. In order to do so, I have to maintain my hygiene first.”

I retrieve my toothbrush from underneath the counter. It is part of my nightly routine, and I can do it without thinking about it, despite only living in this apartment for a month. My hand lazily goes toward the toothpaste. I twist the cap off and set it onto the counter with a satisfying click.

After that, I lift the toothpaste again, open this time. Suddenly, my hands slip. The type jumps from one hand to the other, slightly to the right, just over the toilet. I lose my battle with gravity, and the toothpaste plummets into the open toilet. It lands, nozzle down with a weak splash.

Embarrassment is deeply nestled under my laughter as I tell Mom about the incident. She groans, undoubtedly out of confusion regarding how I can be that bad of a klutz. After directing me to her toothpaste, and telling me to be careful with it, I successfully brush my teeth.