Doctor, Doctor, Give Me the News!

'Cause I've got a bad case of....
Gunky eyeballs.
See, there's this thing when I free my eyes of glasses and wear super awesome contacts, that my eyes turn completely bloodshot. As if I smoked a shit load of weed. An ELEPHANT shit load. And not only that, but it also feels as if a rather small fist, like a baby's, has come and given me a stiff right hook, right in the lookers. And not ONLY that, but it forms this lovely crud which I feel The Beatles summed up in this one lyric--
"Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye."
-I Am the Walrus
It's okay to cringe, it's pretty repulsive I'll admit.
So I'm wandering into my Optometrist's office for the billionth time this month (or the second, I'm not sure) and by this time the receptionist actually calls me on my phone (at school) to tell me that my mom has scheduled an appointment, just for me, as if I'm special. My optometrist and I are forming quite a repore, he asks me nothing about my personal life and I ask him why my eye is so mortally fucked up.
"I think my eye may be dying, right at the roots, you now, like when small inbred dogs pop their eyeballs out and it's tethered with that string thingy..."

"Your optic nerve."

"Oh, that's what that is. Crap, yeah, it's severing...at least, it feels like it is. Is there a cure to this disease, my diseased little, beautiful, blue..."

"Here's your prescription, now get the fuck out of my office."

"Okay. :["

Or something like that.

Also, all these male nudes in Art History are making it highly uncomfortable to sit next to underclassmen. Because they can't handle fuzzy ancient Hercules man balls. Just. Can't. Do It.

"In the Disney movie he wore clothes."

Punch.