I Can't Build this Fire

At the time, I was also working at a pawn shop, and people would sometimes sell us teeth that had gold fillings, and one of the employees would remove the gold and then we were to dispose of the teeth, but I collected them in my own little tin at work to practice with(ethically-dubious, keeping people’s teeth without permission). One day, someone was at my desk and found my little tin of teeth and freaked out and threw them all away and I was very sad.

On break one day, hiding in my car as per usual, I innocently attempted to shove a handful of loose tip money in my glove compartment, i.e. a Later Me problem. However, when the door fell open, a bag of absolutely wretchéd (human?) teeth shamelessly presented itself with a hearty CLUNK as the drawer slammed open from the weight.

I contemplated the bag of teeth as it settled, gently clacking, telling me... something.

First thought: Well, of course there's a bag of teeth in my glove box. Not a modicum of shock. It felt... inevitable. Oh yeah, here's the teeth. The teeth compartment. There they are. A mysterious bag of (extremely filthy? HUMAN??) teeth is confusing and potentially threatening to most, sure. But I know who I am.

More importantly, I know who I'm married to.

Gathering up the precarious bag of (fake human? yes??) teeth, I sent my spouse this image and the following question:

So there I sit, baking in my hot car, a bag of Somebody Else's Teeth on my lap, awaiting a reply from my spouse like an urgent telegram. Against all sense and propriety I open said bag and start fishing through my treasure, holding them up to the light like a jeweler for inspection.

The teeth (pleasantly cool in my sweaty palms) are upsettingly - and unquestionably - human. Heavy as pearls, hard as hell, slick as bone china. The base of each tooth is coated in a sticky red substance, which I scrape off to properly examine. Somewhere, the Law and Order theme is playing. Ice T shakes his head at my folly.

The phone, and my spouse, remain silent.

After a very thorough examination, I come to a comforting conclusion: these are, in fact, (almost) entirely fake human teeth, likely blanks to use as replacements for the unteethed. The red substance is apparently wax, possibly to sort and display said chompers. This does not at all explain why they are, again, in my fucking glove box.

The phone finally beeples, and I shove the handful of teeth in my jacket pocket: another Later Me problem. Right now, knowledge is paramount.

The first message is not enlightening.

Spouse: OH NOOOO YOU FOUND THEM

me: ????????????

Spouse: I'll explain when you get home

me: ??????!!!!!!!!

SPOILER ALERT: My spouse purchased the teeth at an estate sale for a dentist who'd recently passed. They happened to borrow my shitbox car that day and shoved the bag in the glove box to keep it hidden. A clear failure, as I don't know how you forget a bag of teeth in someone else's car, but that's not my mystery to solve.

It turns out my spouse had a plan for those teeth. And O! what a plan it was! You see, we'd recently purchased The Property: a strange house built by an unbelievably creepy (and now thankfully deceased) mechanic in the early 50s. Not fun creepy, like my bag of teeth. More "Why is there a hatch cut into your roof" or "What is that secret compartment for" and "Why are there printouts of police codes everywhere." This is important, because...

...The Spouse's plan was to take these teeth and hide them throughout The Property. The very large, multi-structure Property we'd barely explored. They swore up and down they would never have shared their provenance with me; it was intended I would find each tooth over the course of years, growing more frustrated and confused every time a molar showed up in the attic or garage or Hatch or any number of infinite hidey-holes we now possessed.

This was a great plan, for sure. 10/10. And it might have worked, if they could hold it together long enough to fool me (doubtful). But I don't think it would have, because after all:

As I went over to my boyfriend's house to meet up for Valentine's Day, I spent the whole time think to myself, "okay, it's fine if he doesn't get me flowers or anything. I know that he didn't plan anything either. I know he's not a romantic, he never has been, and it would be pathetic for me to try to change him or wish for him to change. He's not a sentimental person." And I was right. And I did cry a bit and then lied about it. I felt like if I did admit to him I was disappointed then the mood for the entire evening would have been ruined and I didn't want that. But I truly am a bit sad. And I feel absolutely pathetic for it. I knew he wouldn't do anything and I'm distraught at being proven right. How ridiculous a creature am I? I want to die. I try not to ever have expectations for people because I am continually disappointed. I thought i was over this. The only person I can ever trust is myself.

I'm so fucking useless and I'm just sitting here staring at a goddamn picture of Kafka he has on his wall. He's so great in every other way; there's no reason that I should be so upset. I hate myself. I want to die. I don't want to exist. I'm so pathetic. I'm barely a human. I'm such a 2nd tier on Mazlo's hierarchy piece of brain dead shit.

I’ve started consuming every media