I went to the eye doctor this morning for another in a series of Can I Please Wear Contacts, Please? This time it’s looking like there is a remote possibility that maybe sometime in the future there is a sliver of a glimmer of a chance that it might happen. Perhaps.

As I waited (and waited) for my appointment to begin, I entertained myself by being completely grossed out by the office itself. It’s in an older building with charming concrete block walls. The office was divided by some older fabric panels that were showing their wear in the form of nubby fabric pills. Along one paneled wall sat some chairs. Above the chairs there were brown marks where years of greasy heads had rested. I took a photo.

I finally got to see the doctor a few minutes later, and my revulsion over the wall’s head grease was allayed when he prescribed me a mild steroid for the stupid eyelid crud that prevents me from wearing contacts. Guess what it’s called?

FML.

No kidding!