Kitty kitty bang bang

I don't wear specs. I've been longing to get advised to wear specs since the birth of time. Every time I felt I was going blind, I went to the doc. The guy would mercilessly carry out the routine of making me sit on his godforsaken 3x3 inch chair, which by the way wouldn't even seat a molecule of my ubiquitous arse. Then, as if it wasn't already enough proof of his sheer audacity, he'd go to the extent of picking up those miserable shards of glass, I swear, from the time of Tutankhamen that he call lenses and inspect my cornea.

And at the end of all the drama he'd write a "clean. perfect eyes" summary. And of course put me back by a hundred bucks to add to all the misery.

I wonder why he exists even. He does not have to, actually. I wonder what would happen if a Tamil Nadu registered goods carrier runs him over. I'm tempted to think it'd be a lot similar to what a tomato would look like after the same process.

Now as always, I've rode off the track. What I had to write was "I'm getting the eerie feeling that I'm going blind. I'm starting to find things beyond a few feet hard to read." I could have written that and ended saying bubye. But I didn't. This is what having a vapid day can do to you. You just can't stop doing things. Because you are afraid what you'd do when you get that one over with. Its just shit. Just a whole load of yellow shit.

I'm going to have to take an exam this November 16th. I feel like I'd burst open with all the pressure building up inside me. For some reason I always saw myself driving a Porsche through the boulevards of southern France, dining at Hilton and all. I just never gave myself an alternative. So now when I'm faced with the door that can either lead me to where I dreamed of, or take me somewhere I'd have to compromise on a lot of things. Basically, I'm under a lot of pressure. All thanks to my one dimensional future-generator.

I just hope I get to drive a Porsche and make out with some really hot French chic :-)