She's so sexy!

shield your eyes

AT&T update: I called Friday afternoon to try and get service. They put me on hold, and then hung up on me.

I got through again and they said their computers were down and that I should call back in thirty minutes. I called again and was transferred to a New York office that said that they didn’t actually have any access to Texas accounts and that they were only answering calls to say that there was nothing they could do. They told me that someone would call me within five working days. Right. I called again and was told that the system was still down and that they’d call me in thirty minutes. Two hours later they called and asked me to go through the Call Notes step by step. They figured I was incorrectly dialing the phone number. After I proved to them that I wasn’t, in fact, an idiot, they said that they’d call me back in ten minutes. I told them that I was about to leave for a performance, and that I needed them to fix it right now. They put me on hold and came back to say that the office had just closed and that they could no longer help me but that they’d call me first thing Saturday morning.

No call.

Yesterday I got an e-mail concerning my complaints here on They assured me they’d get in touch with me and resolve the issue. Last night I got a phone call from a woman. She was responding to the e-mail about my webpage. The four other service requests I had put in last week were still unanswered. I gave her the fifteen minute version of my story. She told me that she’d have to review my account and she’ d call me back. I laughed. She said she’s sure that I don’t believe her, but that she would in fact call me back within half an hour. I told her that I’m sure she thinks she will, but she won’t. She promised to call.

She didn’t.

I still haven’t heard anything. Eric said that someone called this morning after I left for work and that he told her to call me here at work. No calls so far, five hours later.

Still no Call Notes at my house.

But on to the good news:

Lately I’ve needed reassurance that I am indeed a sexual person. I needed someone to let me know that I am attractive, important, and very sexy.

I have found reassurance in an unlikely source: my eye doctors.

You might not think to look for sex appeal at an optometrists’s office. Let me assure you that these physicians told me everything I needed to set my mind at ease.

I went in for a regular check up and asked the doctor to take a look at my right eye. When I was seventeen or so a small yellow blob showed up on the surface of my eye. My mother said it looked like a cold, so we never bothered with it. At eighteen I started getting nervous about it, since it still hadn’t gone away. I made an appointment and saw an optometrist. That doctor told my budding teen body that I had a scar on the surface of my eye. I had scar tissue that had formed on my eyeball that was to remain there for the rest of my life, unless I paid for it’s removal all by myself (it would be for purely cosmetic reasons, you see).

And that’s when I started feeling sort of saucy. The knowledge of my yellow eye-scar was just a bit heady. I knew I had something the other teen girls didn’t have. I knew that I had a power. They say that the eyes are the window to the soul. Well, my right eye had a bit of extra come-hither power. In fact, I can’t even count the number of times I’d go to nuzzle up to some fine young thing and as I stared into his eyes he’d jump up and wiggle, shouting, “I can’t do anything about it because it’s way too gross, but there is the weirdest yellow thing stuck to your eye. GET RID OF IT! GET IT OUT! EW! EW! ICKY!”

I’d turn men into little, shrieking girlies, running around my apartment begging me to get rid of the offending yellow slime.

But I couldn’t. That was my power. I had eye goo. I was such a tough chick that I had a scar on my eye. Fuck Jaws. That’s a fucking scar.

Recently my eye has been bothering me, however. I notice it turns red quite often, and there’s a clicking noise when I shut my eye from my lid trapping air over the scar. That and the scar has seemed to have gotten larger. I was worried that I had scarred over my original scar.

(By worried I mean “excited.” There’s nothing sexier than a double eye-scar.)

The exam was going well with my doctor until I asked her to diagnose the yellow sex catcher on my right eyeball. She said the one thing that all doctors say, no matter how minimal the affliction, “I have absolutely no idea what that is. I’ve never seen that before in my life. I’m going to refer you to a specialist, and I’d like you to go see him as soon as possible. Hopefully they can remove that. Or treat it. Or something.”

“What is it?” I panted, not wanting to give away how I was letting this all go straight to my head.

“It’s a cyst. You’ve got little pockets of fluid that have piled up over the scar tissue. Maybe they’ll be able to pop them, but there sure are a lot.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

I was getting way too hot, so I had to get out of that office quickly. I know that doctor was just trying to sweet-talk me, but flattery will get you everywhere with me, and I wanted more reassurance of my sexy, sexy self, so I made a quick appointment with the specialist.

“Oh, that’s really nasty,” the nurse said.

“Stop, you’re getting me too hot!” I shouted.

“The doctor will be here in a moment.”

Now, this is the best part, because with a doctor’s diagnosis, I’d have proof that I was a Sexy Hot Mama. One little slip of paper maybe even a prescription! Oh, letting the entire pharmacy know how fucking drop dead gorgeous I was! It was all too much!

He gave me a quick look, treating me like the sassy trollop that I was.

“You’ve got lipid polyps.”


“You’ve got cysts of fatty tissue and water bundled on your eye.”


“You can do nothing, since it’s not affecting your vision, or we could remove them surgically. You’ve got pockets of pus on your eyes that are all swarmed together.”

“I’m your sex goddess. You bow before my drop-dead sexy essence.”

“We’ll go in and slice the top and then you’ll just rub it for a few hours. This will break up the fat tissue and basically it will all drain out over a couple of hours.”

“And fat will leak from my eyes? But Doctor! I didn’t even get you anything! This is too much. My birthday isn’t for a couple of months.”

“Your eye will be red and inflamed for about three weeks.”

“WAIT! We’ve got to stop. I’m too tired. I can’t keep going. Please.”

“So, it’s up to you. Just schedule it for when you’re available to get the surgery.”

And as I curled into the fetal position, spent from all of my sexual energy, I realized that I had an important choice. I’ve had this yellow sex spot for about eight years now. It’s pretty much impressed as many people as it’s going to. It’s already tagged me a guy who is so enamored with my Goo Glamour that he chooses to live with me every day, so he doesn’t miss a single moment when a hint of light glints off the corner of my fatty deposit. He’s there each and every time a tear dangles from my pile of pus. He’s a lipid lover.

But here’s this new opportunity to impress him. It’s like dying my hair, or wearing a fake arm sling. I have the unique opportunity to have red, leaky eyes for up to THREE WEEKS? I mean, how much would you pay for that opportunity? There’s not enough money in the world. Maybe in a moment of passion I’ll blink especially hard and a bit of fat could fly off and rest on his cheek. Oh, it will be so special. Men will travel from across the nation to catch bits of my Pus Escape and bottle it for their own memoirs. I will be pampered and adored for three weeks as people will stand back in awe when they see me. They will turn their heads as I enter a room and they will whisper, “Who is that girl? It shouldn’t be legal for one woman to be so sexy! Did you see the way she wiped eye fat with the back of one hand while using her nasal inhaler with the other? Jesus Christ, I’ve gotta go take a cold shower!”


This hot bitch is getting her eye pus sliced.

You know you want me.

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