Yesterday, after bitching, kvetching and planning, I finally got off my ass and went to an optometrist and got contact lenses. At thirty-one, I’ve had glasses since second grade. I only began wearing them and thereby becoming dependent on them, since 2002. Before that, blind as I am, I somehow semi-successfully lived with the blur.

However, wearing glasses, day in and day out, shortly began to drive me up the fucking wall. Along with a shifty personality, I also have an suspicious look about me. My face is ever so slightly shifted right, with a slightly crooked nose and the left ear a tad bit higher than the other. This evidence of derelict genes makes it pretty much impossible to wear a pair of glasses in a straight position. Try as I may to set them correctly, within a few minutes, they would once again be askew, further contributing to the tendency of women, children and senior citizens giving me a wide berth when in public. I always look a bit off, which isn’t really that misleading, if I were to be speaking truthfully. I was raised wrong. Mercury is not an acceptable substitute for Kook-Aid. Take note, parents everywhere.

Still, as suspect as I may appear, I need to see. Living in a blur sucks. People hate you because you never wave back to them when they spot you from across the street. You get lost easily when navigating by street sign and everyone assumes you are perpetually angry because you maintain a constant, tortured squint. You’re lonely and consistently bitchy, so you suck it up and wear the fucking eye-goggles.

These past few months, the drudgery of being chained to my glasses in order to fully or even semi-function has really started to chisel at my testicles with a rusty leprechaun. An unpleasant experience. I decided to suck up all the neurotic fears I have about eyeballs, eyelids (and their insides) and touching things moist and made an appointment to get some contact lenses.

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