So one would imagine that by now I should be able to remember which toothbrush belongs to me. Or not? For someone who claims to have a knack for details and enjoys a nearly perfect photographic mind since birth, how could such a trivial thing as a lame toothbrush be so difficult? As if just the color would not be enough of a distinguishing factor, a natural characteristic. Was it the purple or the blue one? The blue one. Wait, there is a dark blue one as well as a transparent blue one, which one is it? You see, there had to be an absolutely unique and overpowering factor which in my mind at least would cause my brain to recognize, reach out and grab the correct artifact without an inkling of hesitation. So what I did was this: take a strip of black electrician's tape and wrap it around the base of the toothbrush in such a way that the correct utensil stuck out enough for me in the mixed up crowd of six plus toothbrushes that there would be no room for confusion. And the amazing thing is that it works! So from now on, the very first thing I do whenever I buy a new toothbrush (who cares what color it is any more, the design and/or shape of the bristles) is rip off the plastic wrapping, open up the box, cut off a strip of black tape and wrap it in place. Solidly and unhesitatingly in place, parallel and connected and taut so that it stretches just enough to be able to withstand the moisture common to all bathrooms and to remain affixed indefinitely. The toothbrush acquires a sense of professionalism that does not quit, and the friction of the tape in the palm of my hand feels amazingly good to the touch, as if by brushing now everything works much better than the default state of mind. To imagine that toothbrushes are not the highest form of spiritual awareness is a risk I am not willing to take. You never know, so just in case.