So I’m on the treacherous drive home, amidst the cavalcade o’ vehicles that oft litter the Austin highway known as 360. My guilty pleasure Erasure is blaring, and I’m feeling a bit jazzed that’s it’s Friday. Methinks to meself, “Aye ’tis a jolly wee day for me to go do a little shopping.” I resolve a quick mirror check to make sure face is presentable.
In slow motion, my graceful index finger ever so gently brushes the paper-thin skin ‘neath my eye socket region. And by “ever so gently brushed” I mean launched my fist into my brainsocket. This rapid, most swift movement catapulted into a violent series of events wherein my own worst fear came to fruition: there was a contact. lodged. behindmyfbombeye.
I wince with excruciating pain. Razorblades, strychnine? Nothin’. With each blink, a sharp sting pierced, plunged, and plundered its needley way deeper into my eye.
[ This is Where I Daydream (Day...mare?) ]
Coming to terms with loss of vision and eventual brain damage, I picture my family visiting my sad hospital bed. My entire head, bound and bandaged. Aaaaand for whatever reason, my arms rendered immobile.
[ End Daymare. ]
I cover my wounded ocular vessel, and one-eye it home. My tear-stained face no longer presentable, must now go mano a mano with the ol’ magnifying mirror.
The contact? She eventually showed herself, but not without consequence. You better believe I’m not penetrating my eyeball again. At least not until Sunday.




So speaking of tube socks? Apparently they are totes out of style now thanks to the Intern at work who’s way younger and blonde with eyelashes and reminds me I’m aging and recently let me in on the news that tube socks have been out o’ style for the entire last decade. Oops. (Okay, so I didn’t quite wear the violent sexy pair to the right, but mine were approaching the calf muscle. I know.)


Ya see those there shoes on ya left? At the time of purchase, I was of the unawares that they are The Most Painful Shoes in Existence. I made the hideous and awful mistake of going grocery shopping in them. I swore that day on my Bible, before God and man, that I would never torture my tootsies like that ever again.
I keep waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and guffaw, “Jus’ keeeeeddings! You’ze not hiredz! You’ze firedz!”





Dear Reader,
I think last night I may have gotten slightly overzealous with the newly purchased As Seen On TV PedEgg. Because today I feel like I just peeled my tootsies, dipped them in peroxide, and set them into a lake of fire to fry.
Look at that DMD over there to the right.
