You’re on the subway, rumbling along to work, staring at a poster for the local community college in which a number of students look really excited to be going to a community college, when something flies into your eye. You don’t know what it could be or how on earth it got there, as you’re pretty sure that a gale force wind blustering through a closed subway car is a rare occurrence. Nevertheless, some foreign object is now perched quite obstinately upon your retina, and you’re terrified it will soon begin eating its way through to your optic nerve if you don’t get it out as quickly as possible.
You begin viciously clawing at your eyeball, much to the horror of those sitting around you, who believe you to be one of those subway crazies who eat their own dandruff. Tears are now streaming uncontrollably, as well as a healthy amount of snot. You beg strangers for a tissue, but they just go on pretending to listen to their iPods while reading the newspaper. Oh, you’re on to their little game. You know there’s no music streaming from those earbuds. They just don’t want any batshit eye-gougers to approach them.
Eventually you manage to scoop out the perpetrator – an insidious eyelash – along with a tiny vision-correcting miracle. Your contact lens, stressed and traumatized from the events of minutes past, sits there pathetically on your finger. Wrinkled and disheveled, it grimaces up at you in pain. You grimace back, since you don’t have any solution on you at the moment and you both know you’re just going to have to shove that sucker right back into your eye without the help of any moisture whatsoever.
So your lens decides that, rather than join you on that little adventure, it will escape. And thus, a new quest begins. It hurls itself down to the ground, amidst a chorus of gasping and groaning from you. You quickly glance down at the disgusting floor of the subway, not wanting to even imagine the kind of bacteria and diseases and bodily fluids wafting around down there. But vision correction does not come cheap these days, and you’re going to need both eyes tonight if you want to enjoy Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance. Those front-row-seat tickets are just burning a hole in your pocket, and you’ll be damned if you only get to witness those world-famous Feet of Flames with one eye!
So you swallow your pride and begin digging around on the floor, sweeping your hand across the sticky surface with grandiose, epic gestures. You make contact with many objects that you’d like to never think about again. Was that fur? Is this a syringe? Keep groping, maybe you’ll stick yourself with the antidote. You’re not even close, of course, as the sheer invisibility of the thing makes it nearly impossible to ever detect again. It could very well have migrated to the other end of the car and gotten off of the train two stops ago, for all you know.
Eventually, you find the little pissant, balled up in a corner and beyond repair. Crusty and shriveled, it mocks you and you self-respect, until all you can do is fling it uselessly into the coffee of the guy next to you.
So if you want to suck at life, drop a contact lens. You may be squinting like a pirate for the rest of the day, but look on the bright side: the left half of the bright side, that is.