Life as a Rothko painting

I went for my long-awaited appointment with my new opthamologist today. His office was packed full of old people with failing eyesight, sporting Captain Hookesque eyepatches and looking quite miserable. I was the youngest person there by at least fifteen years.

It was incredibly busy and after getting eyedrops to dilate my pupils, I sat down to wait for my turn. The only source of distraction was a television set that played the saccharine-laced horror of Heidi on a seemingly endless loop.

After ten minutes of Shirley Temple, I wished I was blind and deaf.

KeaneThe bad news? My glaucoma is back, and I may need to get eye surgery to get it fixed. Plus, my doctor dilated my eyes so much I’ve been walking around all afternoon looking like a living Margaret Keane painting. Everything looks like a gigantic wash of colour, swirled together into a big, blurry mess.

In the words of Elvis Costello: “It’s the death that’s worse than fate”. Not only do I dress like and have the cranky temperment of an old man, I now suffer from old man diseases. Are there jobs out there for half-blind Web designers?

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