Sometimes I get this urge to write about Important Things. Like what? Well, I suppose complaining about McDonald’s and discussing the (potentially overwritten) emotions that accompany the occasional steps my kids take towards growing up might qualify.
I don’t know why, but today feels like a something Important day. I should post topical that’ll make the, um, dozens, of my loyal readers stop for a moment to think.
Something about Life, or how processed mini-muffins are a symbol of the Man repressing the proletariat.
Yeah, I got nuthin’. Tor/Forge announced today that all their e-books would be going DRM-free soon, which is a very big step for publishing. But I’m guessing not too many of you will be getting your knickers all twisted-up and “not-so-fresh” over that.
So, instead, let’s about the worst Saturday morning wake-up EVER.
I used to think that the worst possible thing that could happen on a Saturday morning is that I’d wake up at 7 AM, thirsting like I’d just done the proverbial 40 days and nights with Moses in the Sinai desert, with the sensation that my head was being actively bisected by 1976 Frigidaire. Then I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, and the hangover would last 3 days.
When I got a little older, though, I came to believe that the worst possible thing on a Saturday morning was for my kids to wake me up at 7 AM and refuse to let me go back to sleep.
Turns out Nightmares do come true. That’s pretty much every weekend these days.
At any rate, I was wrong about the worst Saturday morning ever. Oh, yes, so wrong.
For whatever reason, as I get older, I find myself sleeping in increasingly awkward ways. I’ll wake up with one arm twisted up underneath my torso in what feels like a fisherman’s knot and my left leg outside the covers, dangling off the bed. Seriously, it’s like I’m playing some kind of subconscious Twister in my sleep…and losing.
But nothing beats this past Saturday. This time, my left eye was attempting to bury itself in one of my forearms. When I was ever-so rudely awoken (as usual, at 7 AM), it burned with the fire of a thousand bee stings and was as red as Jessica Rabbit’s dress. As an added bonus, the numbers on my bedside clock were hazy figures that might as well have been hieroglyphics.
I stumbled to the bathroom, and blinking away fat teardrops like I’d just seen Old Yeller, grimaced up at the mirror. Other than the redness, nothing seemed amiss. Well, except one contact was apparently absent, which explained my new ancient Egyptian alarm clock.
Didn’t explain the stabbing pains, though. So I looked left, and found nothing. Then I looked right…and nearly shuddered hard enough to shake the teeth out of my head.
My missing contact lens was folded in half and on the wrong side of my eye.
And I don’t mean the left side or the right side, I mean, The. Back. Side.
Yes, you read that right. Behind my eyeball. That place I always assumed the leprechauns with the evil laugh that tell me to burn things go to sleep when other people are around. To the Dark Side of the Eye, as it were.
I’m just going to that sink in for a few minutes.
Finished thinking about it? Good. So, then, all together now, “Eeeeeeeeww.”
To be honest with you, I’m still not sure how I managed to get the thing out. As I’ve said before while discussing this very issue, when it comes to eyeballs, I’d rather be kicked squarely in the family jewels hard enough to see Disney characters dance in the starburst patterns in my tear-filled vision before letting anyone’s grubby digits, let alone my own, finger my peepers.
Yet, somehow, I got the thing out on my own without being sedated, treated for hysteria, or blacking out and having hallucinations about my “happy place”. Luckily, I removed it before it became infected or my body absorbed it as part of the transformation into the gypsy psychic Third Eye I’ve always feared.
Which is kind of shame, really, at least that way I’d have known the winning lottery numbers ahead of time.
And yes, I’ve been wearing my glasses for the past few days.