I think the genetic faucet in my eyes got turned off a couple of years ago. They’ve been almost consistently dry since then. I can’t keep them moist. Either that, or years of consuming Bacardi and Coke have finally taken their toll. I guess my liver’s next in that case. Seriously, though, my eyes feel like buckets of sand. They’re no longer the sparkling pools of sumptuous chocolate they once were. Now, they’re dried, aquatically-anemic cesspools of pollution and pollen. That dry eye syndrome supposedly hits people as they “Age.” In other words, when you get to be an old fucker, certain parts of your body decide, at long last, they want to lead lives of their own. On most people, it’s usually the genitalia. But, mine is still comfortable living with me. We have an understanding. I leave Frank and his 2 buddies alone when they’re in a bad mood, and they leave me alone when I need to write. Thus, my eyes have sought independence – and sandpapering themselves every few minutes is their way of trying to break free. I don’t think I qualify for an ocular transplant because I’m otherwise healthy and suffer from no real eye ailment. I might be able to manufacture a glaucoma certificate from a doctor. But, that would be – what’s the term? – wrong.
In the meantime, I flush my eyes with tap water and soak them often with Visine. I should buy stock in that company. I’d get rich and could write full time like I’ve always wanted. I wonder, though, if I’d qualify for disability. Hey, that’s an idea! I could use my schnauzer, Wolfgang, as a seeing eye dog. He has big beautiful dark brown eyes, and no one can resist him – not even a lesbian. I could say I’ve had him for a while and trained him myself to be a guide dog, while my vision became encrusted with mold. It was an emergency situation, I’d tell the tired old Black woman sitting behind the counter, so I couldn’t wait until Lighthouse for the Blind got me a golden retriever. That’s the good thing about government agencies – they love Black people and dogs.
I drove to the gym last Saturday night and felt like I had taken a wrong turn into rain-swept Seattle. Seated forward with both hands on the wheel, I surely looked like a schizophrenic on a crime spree – or somebody from South Florida. I squinted at the weight machine, making certain I injected the pin into the right one. I didn’t want to try suddenly to lift 210 pounds and render myself a quadriplegic. Then, I’d be doubly disabled. I’d qualify for more government aid, but I couldn’t train Wolfgang to pick up stuff for me. He draws the line at some things. One guy looked at me funny as I fumbled with the weight pin. I’m just pissed off, I told him. My parole officer is on vacation, and I couldn’t go to Galveston without letting him know first. The guy slowly meandered to the other side of the gym.
The National Weather Service says this year so far has been the worst on record for pollen counts. Every laboratory across the nation is stunned by the levels of dust and moth wings clogging their measuring cups. I’ve always been sensitive to the change of seasons, especially from summer to fall. Occasionally, the winter – spring switch knocks me for a loop. I’d usually just take some over the counter crap, drink some orange juice, not masturbate for a couple of days and go to bed early. And, that would do it. I’d be fine.
This year is different. Way different. Ominously and aggravatingly different. Even my dad is having allergic reactions. And, he isn’t normally allergic to anything except a losing year for the Dallas Mavericks. No amount of OTC stuff is helping me. It just gives me that delirious effect I get when I drink alcohol on an empty stomach, or have 3 Red Bulls in succession. That can be a good feeling – until you have to do something really important like drive at night, or eat.
I have reading glasses, but I might as well use Coke bottles. They’re even more outdated than my cell phone. I’m squinting so much my upper and lower eyelashes are getting to know each other in ways not even they imagined. Taking a shower provides the only relief, since I can stand beneath the rushing water and let it flood my eye sockets. It feels almost as good as having my back popped. Walking around I feel like I’m looking through an original Thomas Edison fish eye lens with the quaint strip of gauze around the outer edges. I walked carefully while at the store earlier today, afraid I’d bump into some truly disabled person, like a soccer mom. Those suburban housewives can get vicious if you encroach on their space, or don’t compliment their lazy kids.
Accompanying the frosted vision is sneezing, body aches and lethargy, so I realized it’s nothing catastrophic, like glaucoma or failing to have enough bowel movements. On top of that, I’m lethargic. You know you’re sick when you’re not just tired, but lethargic. The next stage of exhaustion is comatose. I’ve approached that level several times – mainly after consuming a box of cold meds and some Bacardi in one sitting. That’s an even better feeling than getting your back popped. If I was in a coma, though, I’d definitely qualify for disability. The only thing is I wouldn’t be able to work on my writings and this blog because that would be – what’s that word again? – wrong. I don’t want that Black chick at the government office to come after me. But then, if she did, that would count as a hate crime because I’d be on disability. I always like to think ahead.
None of those scenarios sound pleasant. Heavy rains fell here in the Dallas / Fort Worth area starting last night and into this afternoon; washing away a good deal of that dust and moth wings. Then, the sun came out, and dried up everything. So more dust formed and more moths perished. And, here I am again – with sandpapered eyes. Oh, well. At least I can invest in Visine and make some serious cash. After all, they owe me. We’ve bonded.
Chief Writing Wolf 