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.
