I am ecstatic to announce that I read a REAL book the other night for the first time in fifteen months. I read Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney, a book for nine- to twelve-year-old boys, so it was right up my reading alley. Even without any bathroom jokes or foul words. Plus, I understood almost every single word.
The answer to this phenomenal phenomenon?
That's right. New eyeglasses. The trifocal kind with three lenses: Distance, for seeing from here to the end of the world. Intermediate, for looking at the computer and my lower bodily parts. And reading, for reading, the best lens of all.
I still have glaucoma, caused by a drug I continue to take, but with the eye drops I take four times a day the ocular pressure has returned almost to normal. Since I'm a pest and a pain in the ass, Dr. Eyeball thought new glasses might help and thus shut me the hell up.
I'm not making a peep, even if the glasses aren't perfect because of ever-changing blurriness. The reading lenses are spectacular spectacles, however. I'm reading another REAL book, albeit it slowly because of a small font, but I'm as giddy as forty-seven seven-year-old girls all squealing at a swimming pool party.
No I'm not. But I'm real darn happy, and I'm going to continue to read until my eyes just up and bust.