Crack Whores Don't Wear Cosabella

It's eightygazillion degrees outside and I feel like I've been running around like a chicken with its head cut off all day but also like a crack whore mainly owing to the fact that my eyes have been unnaturally dilated since about eleven a.m. this morning leaving but a slice of blue-green and also to the fact that this is the first ever blog written in my underwear (but crack whores don't wear Cosabella, do they)?

I have an irrational abhorrence of eye doctors. Dentists you know not to like: they do things like try to talk to you while they've got their fist shoved up your mouth. Eye doctors work more subtly against you. They ask questions like whether you use any ocular medications and then you have to clarify whether ocular means eye and feel inwardly stupid. And, of course, they dilate your eyes even though the chance that you've developed Glaucoma at age 26 must be smaller than the chance of dying in a terrorist attack. So of course I assume they're slightly sadistic.

Driving anywhere with highly dilated pupils is not fun. And I mean not fun like trying to get down a ski slope after taking a hit on the chair lift (works great for some people, not so much for me).

Trying to complete your daily errands with dilated pupils is also not fun. Really. Try going to the convenience store to pick up a six-pack with dilated pupils without feeling like a crack whore. Seriously.

Then walk home (because you just dropped off your car at the mechanics) with said six-pack and dilated pupils while wearing a black dress in eightygazillion degree heat while trying not to feel like a crack whore.

You'll end up stripping off the dress the minute you get home and writing a blog about it. Really. Or taking a shower