Quick recap of last night:
Drove up to Big Sister’s place for the night (sorry, no photo of that caption. Imagine a car, with someone driving it.).
But onto a more important discussion:
I’d like to look into eye transplants.
Why? Because yesterday, I woke up to this:
No, you can’t catch it through the screen. Calm down.
Was I surprised, you ask? Sadly, no. Second case in two months. (The photo above actually makes it look better than it is. Just imagine it’s…pinker. And grosser.)
And even that wasn’t surprising – if I recall correctly, during my senior year of college I had it approximately every other month for about an eight-month span.
Thus, I believe it’s finally time to break up with said recurring conjunctivitis. And because I’m not in the mood for confrontation, I’ll do so in letter form.
My dearest Pink Eye,
How’s it going?
I hope things are well for you in the membrane of my eyelid. Not too warm or muggy, I trust?
You know I’ve kindly allowed you to hole up in my Left Eye (R.I.P.) for well over a couple of years now. You only intermittently come out of hiding – which I appreciate, don’t get me wrong. But I’ve realized you don’t really care how I feel about, well, really anything. It’s all about you.
So it’s time I let you know how I truly feel.
And I’d rather not bring up Jeff Foxworthy – you know I hate remembering he exists – but it’s the only way I can convey to you how, to be blunt, you’ve overstayed your welcome.
You know you’ve had pink eye too often when
…you own an entire pirate costume set (It’s more than just an eye patch, folks. We’re talking tri-cornered hat, hand-covering hook and skull ring. Next time I’ll go for the shoulder parrot and peg leg.) and didn’t purchase it for Halloween.
…you’ve had to replace your eye makeup way before it’s dried up and just taking up space in your makeup drawer (and I’m not one to throw away old makeup – just ask Big Sister. I swear when she comes over, she rifles through my drawer and secretly tosses out half my collection), which is super annoying. And costly. That shit’s expensive.
…you cringe when someone sees you and then brings up that one scene from Knocked Up because you’re 100 percent (fine, 98. Boyfriend, I’m looking at you.) positive no one’s farting in your vents or on your pillow, and yet somehow, you keep getting it anyway.
Or, you know, when you’re not six anymore.
So please, kind sir, I respectfully ask that you remove yourself immediately.
Or: Pack up your shit and get the hell out of my eye.