The Time My Mom Tried To Kill Me

I'm dying.  Ok, at the bare minimum, my eye is going to fall out of my head.  I have an ingrown eyelash.  But eyelashes are so tiny and non-threatening.  WRONG.  I'm in some serious pain over here.  Granted it didn't hurt until I actually realized it was there, but whatever.  Point is, I'm in pain, and I look a little funny.

Of course I immediately Googled what the heck was going on on my face and came up with zero results that made me feel the least bit comfortable.  Apparently I wasn't supposed to touch, and I had been poking it and taking pictures for the last half of an hour.  Oops.  If I do touch it, I'll go blind.  That's how I understood it anyways.  Thankfully, the boyfriend came home just in time to watch me lose my shit a little bit.  Ladies, there is a very big difference between living with a boy and living with your mom.  And that difference is very apparent when you're being ridiculous.  My mother would have held me as we talked about all the fond memories we had of me when I had both my eyes, and then drove straight to the emergency room to wait a least six hours for somebody to pull out my eyelash and give me a Percocet. (They seriously over medicate in Lake City, so if you can make the drive without dying from your injuries it's totally worth it.)  She would have let me have something out of the vending machine too.  Boyfriend rolled his eyes (must be nice to have two working ones) and told me to quit being ridiculous and wait a few days.

Mom sounds a whole lot better than a boyfriend. right?  Nope, wrong again.  My mom hasn't always responded appropriately to my overreactions.  We would frequently have bonfires in our yard when I was growing up, and you can't have a fire without making s'mores.  Duh.  One of those nights, after everybody had gone to bed, my friend Timmy and I were still hanging out when I stepped on a hanger.  Those of you with the same amount of class I have, know that you can straighten out a wire hanger and use it to toast your marshmallows on.  Anywho, the end of that sucker when right in between my toes, and into my foot.  Me, in all my dramatic fashion, hobbled around for the next hour asking my mom for proof of my tetanus shot.  After she assured me I was all up to date on my shots and I settled down a little, shewent on to explain to me that I may have to worry about blood poisoning though.

She told me that I only had to worry if my veins looked red and not blue.  And you can bet your ass I stayed awake for most of the night making sure everything stayed the appropriate color on me.  I finally dozed off early that morning, only to wake up a few short hours later to my mom tip-toeing out of her bedroom.  Guess what she was coming to do?  DRAW ON ME.  She thought it would be funny to draw a red line up my leg and have me wake up thinking I was going to die.

I'm assuming she was trying to teach me a lesson about overreacting, but that definitely backfired.  She basically spent the remainder of the time I lived there treating me like a baby anytime I looked like I was going to sneeze.  I'm not entirely sure if that was a result of that incident, or definitely because I ended up kind of being a brat, but either way, I earned her sympathy and then some.

Back to the issue at hand, there is an excellent chance that I will be rocking an eye patch in the near future.  Which is fine, because I have plenty and I look fantastic in one.

Ahoy.