Last year, I made a visit to the optometrist. I hadn't been in a while, and little things were starting to concern me. Like my inability to make out the identities of people more than ten feet
away. Or the realization that I could no longer read street signs. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I was diagnosed with 20/70 vision, and I picked out a pair of glasses.
Unfortunately, I seldom wear those glasses. I don't need them to read, I don't drive often, and I've found that smiling at every approaching blob works out better than my actual responses might if I knew the blob's identity. Also, I think of my glasses as an accessory - like a great belt or big earrings. No matter how cute (and the glasses are very cute), you just don't wear them everyday. If you did, they would cease to be kicky and become tired necessities, like headgear or my work identification tag.
So, most of the time I live in a slightly blurry world, and I don't mind it. Or I didn't mind it, until this morning, when I bent to pick up what I thought was a bit of lint or a leaf and it turned out to be A LIVING F*CKING ROACH, a conniving, evil, douchebag roach that stayed very still until my fingers closed around it. I nearly died from an epic case of the icks. I'm getting contacts immediately. I'm also coating our very clean and organically inclined apartment in all manner of toxins to ward off any other little beasts who might be feeling feisty in the warmer temperatures.
In other, far less disgusting news, the Christmas Cactus is having another go. For St. Paddy's day, I suppose. Sláinte!