Eye appointments aren't usually as disappointing as this one was. I didn't even realize how sad I was until I found myself stuck in bed this morning, too depressed to move. The appointment was going well, with the usual tests. I looked at pretty colored dots with numbers to see if I'm colorblind--I'm not. I got the puff of air in my eyes to find out if I have glaucoma--I don't. My eyesight has even improved the tiniest little inkling--the left eye is -8.50 instead of -8.75 [either way, it really sucks]. I still have an astigmatism, but apparently all that means is that my eyes aren't globular; instead, they're egg-shaped. All that does is make my glasses more expensive. I asked about legal blindness, because I was really that concerned about it--and I wanted to see if I qualified for more scholarships. I'm not and I don't, which is probably good.
But then, I asked about laser eye surgery, because, as smoldering as I look in these coke-bottle glasses, I don't want to wear them forever. So, the doctor explained. For one thing, I can't get the surgery until I'm twenty-one, which I already knew. It has something to do with how eyes develop. But then, she dropped a bomb on me. I have to have a stable prescription in order to get laser eye surgery. That might seem bad, and it didn't phase me at the time. But then I thought about it, and realized that my prescription changes every freaking year. What this means is that I'm doomed to glasses [because I refuse to get contacts; I can't stick my fingers in my eyes] FOR ALL TIME.
This has been my utterly ruined day. I'm going to see Billy Elliot up in Chicago, so that might improve things. Until then, you're invited to my pity party.