Big Eyes = Big Problems.

Ok, we are all aware. Let's just get it out there on the table. I have bug eyes. I know I do. You know it, I know it. It's fine. They are enormous. If taken outside of my sockets they would be ping pong balls. And though some people are very flattering and sweet, i.e the guy at the bar tonight who grabbed me by the arm and said, "Girl, you have Bette Davis Eyes!" Or the teacher at my elementary school who gasped in the hallway when I was 9 and said, "Your eyes! I've never seen anything like that!" (Because, your eyes are the same size your entire life, so imagine my eyes on a 9 year old.) I like to think they help me see more than the average person. Whatever, I don't care... all I know right now is that the bigger the eye, the easier to get something rammed into it.

My dad was an opthamologist. I miss him a lot right now, not for all the very sentimental reasons that a child would miss their father who has passed away, but right now only for the sole reason that I can't call him and get some free eye advice. I can almost hear his voice saying to me, "Put a washcloth on it and go to sleep", but this is starting to get severe.

The remainder of this blog is not for the easily queased. That being said...THERE IS GOO COMING OUT OF MY EYE. I didn't even know anything besides tears could come OUT of your eye. What is going on?

I don't know what happened. I went over to some friends to watch Project Runway tonight (sorry Kristen, but I'm all caught up for next week...) and all of a sudden my eye was killing me. It feels like someone pushed a needle into it, then punched it, then ripped out my eyelashes and replace them with burning tar. Then sang me the entire score of RENT. That's how painful and annoying this is.

At the friends house I went to the bathroom and tried to flush out my eye, which you all know how much I hate doing. Then tried to pull my top eyelid over my bottom eyelid which caused a fiery surge of pain to go shooting through my socket all the way down to my toes. We had a talk.

"Look, Eyeball, I don't know what to do. Please, just reject whatever is stuck in there and let's move on."

No such luck. And when I came out of the bathroom I looked like the crazy crying friend. You know the one? The girl who will come to a party but then pin you in a corner and tell you all about her sad awful life. The one who sighs a lot and escapes to the bathroom returning teary faced and saying, "It's nothing, really." I hate that girl. We all do.

When I got home I went right for the drops. I HATE eyedrops. I would honestly, HONESTLY, rather be punched in the stomach than insert eyedrops, but the pain was searing and it seemed like a requirement. The drops did nothing.

Kris invited me out to the bar, I went for the sole reason that I knew walking briskly would make my eyes water, as it always does. They did water, but the pain did not subside.

When my dad left this world he left me 44 leather bound expensive beatuiful opthamology text books. I am staring at them right now. And if I understood how to pronounce any of the words, I would be in good shape. But believe you me, I definetely looked at a few. Including my favorite called, "Light to the Blind" which I always thought would make a great title to a play, though not as great as "Morbid Anatomy of the Human Orbit." I also just realized there are 44 books and 44 is my favorite number. Hence my email, IM, and telephone number. But that's a different blog.

Visualize me if you will right now. I am lying in my bed, with my sleep mask covering my left morbid human orbit like a damn pirate. All I need is a parrot and a peg leg.

Crusty patches are forming under my eye. Things I have never experienced are happening. when I awake perhaps I will be blind. It's an Eyepocolypse.

In case you are not already thoroughly bored and disgusted and asking yourself, "What happened to the old blogs where Brooke would write about bigger things than her crusty gooey eye?" I've taken the liberty of including pics. I have never cried this much without actually being any type of sad in my entre life. These pictures are proof of my pain, since I tend to usually embellish somewhat (Mrs. James Frey) but now you will have no doubt of how I am suffering.

HELP!