I hate eyeballs. I hate touching them. I hate other people touching their own eyeballs. I hate having something in my eye. I am Rachel off 'Friends' times a million. If you want me squealy and over-the-top dramatic about something small, put your finger near your eyeball. It makes me physically nauseous.
So when I look in the mirror at the end of my work day and see that I have wiry veins creeping across the inner corner of my left eyeball, I almost vomit. These are not the regular veins that are supposed to be there. These are bright red, inflamed, I HAVE INTERNAL EYE BLEEDING veins. The hypochondriac in me comes roaring to life and I immediately assume I'm going blind at an alarmingly fast rate, but after I paper-bag it and can think rationally, I figure maybe a scratch? Yes, a scratch. HOW DID I GET A SCRATCH WHEN NOTHING ENTERS MY EYE?! There's no way it's a scratch. It's clearly some sort of infection that is airborne and has landed on my eyeball and caused it to start burning.
Yes, now my eyeball is burning. This reaction may or may not be psychological, but after some serious contemplation about how my eye has gotten to this point I have come to the conclusion that if it hasn't disappeared by tomorrow that I'm most definitely going to have to get eye drops. Eye drops that will never get used because nothing enters my eye. People will have to force me down to the ground, pin me in place, and put the eye drops in for me, because when I need to be, I'm freakishly strong. Like a grown man strong. And that strength comes out when I'm resisting something, such as eye drops.
Maybe no one will notice my eye.
A: How's the night going?
Fellow Barista: Oh it's okay, you kno--*squints at my face*--what's wrong with your eye?
A: I'm going blind.
That was my first encounter with another human since I had discovered said rabid eye.
I hope the people in my life that care about my eyesight are strong.