eye exam

Ugh. I'm at the optometrist and having an anxiety attack in the waiting room.  They're asking all these questions about if I want glasses or contacts.  I DON'T KNOW UNTIL AFTER I TALK TO THE DOC. 

But the receptionist keeps asking.

I want to run outside and leave.   Except they know me.  He's a family friend.   Sigh. 

Deep breaths, Wendy.   And it seems everyone's answer these days is surgery.  Which is what got me into this mess in the first place.   Gdam cut-happy fkrs.  

Also this neighborhood has changed a bit since I was here.  Fkn scary patients.  And the receptionist isn't much better.   She keeps ordering me where to sit.  I don't wanna sit there, mofo. Too many LOUD people nearby.

Now I know why I rarely go out.  Having such anxiety. 

And FUCKITYFUCK for the official reminder of exactly how bad that eye's vision is.  I started crying while explaining my problems with contact lenses and glasses.  Poor guy.  He was so sweet.  Patted me on the leg in an avuncular manner.  Handing me stacks of tissues.  I had wads in both hands when I left the exam room for the first time.  And that's why I keep going there.

He fixed me up as best he could, and I met my Pops for lunch.