Eyeballs are very dumb. Mostly in how we have to take care of them. Such a drag. Most of us have two of them, and that's pretty awesome. Some of us only have one, and that's still okay. Maybe more honorable, depending on how you only have just the one. Some of us have none, and that's both unfortunate and perhaps honorable, again depending on the back story. Above all, eyeballs are just stupid.
Yeah, I'm talking to you, eyeballs. You and your gross composition of fluids and membranes and rods and cones and photoreceptor cells. I hate touching you. In fact, I can't even touch you. It freaks me the hell out, much like touching soft foam does. Nobody touches you. Not even the eye doctor lady trying to put contacts in for the very first time. That experience lasted roughly forty seconds until I was slumped on the floor outside of the bathroom, my brain and stomach nauseous from the mere idea of someone touching my eyeball. You literally make me sick just thinking about touching you, so congratulations.
Let me be the first to reassure you that eyewear fashion in the early 1980s sucked a huge donkey phallus. These glasses were so ugly there isn't even enough visual evidence on the internet depicting such, so just trust me on this. There was absolutely nothing exciting about it. Or if there was anything exciting, my parents sure as hell didn't care. They were all about the cheap, and that's exactly what both my sister and I got at the end of every doctor visit. Inside this doctor's office, like most optometrists, were walls lined with a bevy of eyeglass frames. They were all the hip and trendy styles. My parents even let Chris and I try some on from time to time. But we sure as hell weren't getting any of those along the walls or spinning racks on the tables. No way. When the time came to get new glasses, the ladies working the counter brought out a small serving tray adorned, not with food, but the frames we were to choose from.These frames, while bullshit, probably deserve more recognition than I care to give them. Discounted frames were our only hope at ever seeing again. But that doesn't substitute the fact they were horrible frames. Add to this fact technology had yet to exist in thinning frames or eliminating bifocals, and what you had was a really goofy-looking me with coke-bottle lens.
Thankfully, eyewear conditions have improved dramatically over time. My current pair is decent, albeit expensive. Ever see these "two for one" eyeglass special advertisements? Here's what they won't tell you - it doesn't apply if your prescription is too strong. In other words, if you're almost blind, go fuck yourself and pay full price. Needless to say, I'm content with my current prescription and frames. The pair prior to this snapped in half right at the bridge of the nose. No duct tape psychics experiment could rescue that for longer than a few minutes at a time. Which was disheartening, because I liked those frames.
My driver's license was up for renewal this year, and like most stupid New York State things, they decided to jazz things up for a bit just to fuck with us. Apparently we now need a doctor-approved vision test for renewal. Or maybe this rule had been in place for awhile and I hadn't been paying attention. Whoops! Anyway, I am not currently in New York state, so this posed a problem. Given my comical history with New York's Department of Motor Vehicles (I'll save that for some other time), I was expecting the absolute worst. As in, no matter where I got an eye exam from, if it wasn't done by a New York State licensed optometrist, it's completely unacceptable and my license will forever be suspended and I shall be tarred and feathered and rolled out into downtown on a giant stone wheel where passer-bys can throw disease-infested darts at my balls - and then the DMV will tack on $550 in late fee penalties.
I was able to find an eye doctor down here in North Carolina that didn't charge too extravagantly for us postulant folks lacking vision insurance. The eyes came back all okay, and fairly similar to the results I had at an exam a couple years ago. Great! Doc, just fill out this lame form I can send to my DMV, please. And so that happened, pretty much headache free.
Today, by the grace of some weird divine miracle, my new license arrived at my parent's house. Or really, just an envelope from the DMV. There may or may not be a license in there. I'll find out when they send it. I'm expecting no license, and a note that says they are going to come and assault me with machetes.
Yeah, I'm talking to you, eyeballs. You and your gross composition of fluids and membranes and rods and cones and photoreceptor cells. I hate touching you. In fact, I can't even touch you. It freaks me the hell out, much like touching soft foam does. Nobody touches you. Not even the eye doctor lady trying to put contacts in for the very first time. That experience lasted roughly forty seconds until I was slumped on the floor outside of the bathroom, my brain and stomach nauseous from the mere idea of someone touching my eyeball. You literally make me sick just thinking about touching you, so congratulations.
Let me be the first to reassure you that eyewear fashion in the early 1980s sucked a huge donkey phallus. These glasses were so ugly there isn't even enough visual evidence on the internet depicting such, so just trust me on this. There was absolutely nothing exciting about it. Or if there was anything exciting, my parents sure as hell didn't care. They were all about the cheap, and that's exactly what both my sister and I got at the end of every doctor visit. Inside this doctor's office, like most optometrists, were walls lined with a bevy of eyeglass frames. They were all the hip and trendy styles. My parents even let Chris and I try some on from time to time. But we sure as hell weren't getting any of those along the walls or spinning racks on the tables. No way. When the time came to get new glasses, the ladies working the counter brought out a small serving tray adorned, not with food, but the frames we were to choose from.These frames, while bullshit, probably deserve more recognition than I care to give them. Discounted frames were our only hope at ever seeing again. But that doesn't substitute the fact they were horrible frames. Add to this fact technology had yet to exist in thinning frames or eliminating bifocals, and what you had was a really goofy-looking me with coke-bottle lens.
Thankfully, eyewear conditions have improved dramatically over time. My current pair is decent, albeit expensive. Ever see these "two for one" eyeglass special advertisements? Here's what they won't tell you - it doesn't apply if your prescription is too strong. In other words, if you're almost blind, go fuck yourself and pay full price. Needless to say, I'm content with my current prescription and frames. The pair prior to this snapped in half right at the bridge of the nose. No duct tape psychics experiment could rescue that for longer than a few minutes at a time. Which was disheartening, because I liked those frames.
My driver's license was up for renewal this year, and like most stupid New York State things, they decided to jazz things up for a bit just to fuck with us. Apparently we now need a doctor-approved vision test for renewal. Or maybe this rule had been in place for awhile and I hadn't been paying attention. Whoops! Anyway, I am not currently in New York state, so this posed a problem. Given my comical history with New York's Department of Motor Vehicles (I'll save that for some other time), I was expecting the absolute worst. As in, no matter where I got an eye exam from, if it wasn't done by a New York State licensed optometrist, it's completely unacceptable and my license will forever be suspended and I shall be tarred and feathered and rolled out into downtown on a giant stone wheel where passer-bys can throw disease-infested darts at my balls - and then the DMV will tack on $550 in late fee penalties.
I was able to find an eye doctor down here in North Carolina that didn't charge too extravagantly for us postulant folks lacking vision insurance. The eyes came back all okay, and fairly similar to the results I had at an exam a couple years ago. Great! Doc, just fill out this lame form I can send to my DMV, please. And so that happened, pretty much headache free.
Today, by the grace of some weird divine miracle, my new license arrived at my parent's house. Or really, just an envelope from the DMV. There may or may not be a license in there. I'll find out when they send it. I'm expecting no license, and a note that says they are going to come and assault me with machetes.