donkey on donkey

INFECTION.

 

I might have an eye infection. Things are a bit puffy and painful. Thankfully, nothing has yet turned pink. How the hell do people deal with such things? Even if I make a medical appointment I won't get in until next week. By that time I'll have sunk into the groping and fantastical world of the blind.

 

. . .

 

MURDER

 

Last night I dreamt that Sarah and Kevin went on a Saw binge and decided to become serial killers a la that line of movies. Nick and I stopped by Kevin's place to pick him up for band practice, but he was like, Sarah's not back yet. All around mutilated people and people strapped into bizarre death machines begged for help. Let's get this cleaned up, I said. We gotta go. This is your girlfriend's party, he said. Or something like that.

 

I called her and she didn't deny it!

 

. . .

 

INFECTION PART II

 

Later this morning I decided I probably did have an eye infection. My optometrist told me to go to take a long lunch break and go to the walk-in clinic which, never doubt, was a fucking orgy of prancing donkeys taking flying leaps at each others' backsides. At first it seemed cool—the donkeys were keeping it together—and I sat down to wait, entirely alone, with a novel.

 

PATIENT THE FIRST: a chunky mid-30s woman accompanied by a chunkier mid-40s male. Male can't stop chuckling. Woman says something, waits about ten minutes. Is asked by the doctor if she has a boo boo. Is then brought into the back room.

 

PATIENT THE SECOND: a woman in some sort of authoritative uniform with city patches on the shoulders. Don't these people have real doctors? She didn't even have to wait that long, maybe 20 minutes, but in that time she bugged the counter receptionists three separate times, each time sounding more and more reminiscent of this video:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUS6nKpddec

 

PATIENT THE THIRD: Hillbilly Hank, late-20s. Walks in, stands at the desk with legs spread in green sweat pants. White t-shirt. "You got the swine flu vaccination?" "No." Turns and stiff-arms the door, walks out.

 

PATIENT THE FOURTH (AND FIRST): Me. Called over after 70 minutes and asked to pony up fifty falafels. I'd rather wait, I say. In case I don't get in. Okay, she says. Then I sit down. Usually we ask you to pay up front. Well, I say. What if I don't get in? You'll get in. I know you can't really predict, I say, but can you give me an idea of how long it might be? One to two more hours.

 

Gone!

 

So what the fuck, now my eye's gonna go crusty or just fall out or maybe allow me to peer into the future or maybe nothing at all. Maybe it's from an eyelash caught in there or something. I'll just make a pouch with my lower eyelid and pour  in a few milligrams of nine-dollar brandy.