The Hipster Hygienist – Dead Deer

The Hipster Hygienist

That beard is a problem, right from the off. It’s got egg in it. The white coat doesn’t convince anyone. There are braces underneath, for sure. Rinsing your mouth in a craft beer fails to refresh the mouth, or the breath. The retro equipment is somewhat off-putting, you really just want the most modern assistance to painless dentistry available.

After knocking off he hangs up the coat and dons the Tweed. Perfect skin, smooth fingers, what in his life requires those heavy hob-nailed boots? Stopping on the way home for a cup of his preferred brew he is appalled to find that the wrong grade of blade has been used on the beans. He splutters it out, coffee splashing across the floor, this young-old man finds himself with a face of rage, on a Friday night.

Today I wrote  between 23:18 and 23:28. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, my tweets here, and my book here.

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Mar 15th – Springtime splendo(u)r

March 15th – Springtime splendour

08.35-08.45

Spring made Darryl angry. A lot of things made Darryl angry: he was, after all, what you would probably call an angry young man. But there was something about spring that tipped him over the edge.

Maybe it was the flowers, his therapist suggested, in one of the sessions he was forced to attend, and consequently another thing that made him angry. He was angry about being angry, and angry about the fact that he had to manage his anger. Maybe it’s the flowers, she had said, in that soft, soothing voice, that really got his back up. Maybe you respond to the flowers because they are a symbol of the renewal that you are searching for yourself, and their bright reappearance is a reminder that the world is moving on, and you haven’t. What do you think about that?

Darryl didn’t think much about that.

He didn’t think much about being here, on a sunny March morning, with the light streaming through the window and the dust dancing in the air illuminated by the sunshine. Weren’t these places supposed to be clean? He didn’t want to be here, but he had no choice: it was the court’s decision, and it was either this or a short spell inside, which even he could see (even though the idea made him angry) that that wasn’t really the best idea, and that it wasn’t going to do him any good. He just had to keep his head down, come here every week, and listen to the woman witter on about the inside of his head, and what he was thinking, and how he needed to see the good in the world.

Seriously, flowers?

Flowers didn’t make him angry, not in themselves. Although, come to think about it, they were arrogant little fuckers, with their colour, and their smell, and their doing nothing all day. But he thought (to himself, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of being on to something) that maybe they were a symptom rather than the cause. He didn’t know what made him angry. All he knew was that he was.

Darryl?

Darryl didn’t answer. He knew that the time was almost up, that the box was ticked for another week, that he’d soon be free to walk away, until next time. The second hand of the clock edged round another almost silent circle.

Maybe. I don’t know.

She told him to think about it, told him that she thought they were making progress, that they would follow this up next week. Darryl mumbled a thank you that was on the edge of sounding genuine, and left, leaving the door open behind him and taking the stairs down two at a time.

It was warm outside, warmer than it was when he came in, and Darryl shrugged off the jacket he had put on as he was leaving. He flicked it over his right shoulder as he walked, kicking his way through the crocuses on the grass on his way to the gate.

 

Inspired by a prompt from here