My boy… My poor poor son. Good lord.
While we were off enjoying ourselves in Colorado, I got pinkeye. It’s no mystery where it came from since I’ve had the great pleasure of being cursed with some of the most unhygienic and frankly disgusting children in the history of anything. I have been coated with vomit, urine, feces and the children haven’t helped since they came along. I guess it was only a matter of time before some shit germ found its way into my eye and had a party.
I’m tough, though, when it comes to my eyes. I only cried six hours out of the day because of it, but that wasn’t the worse… oh no. I was also in the throes of a urinary tract infection that was turning my dick into a flamethrower every time I had to take a piss.
Have you ever been in a situation where you actually couldn’t stand the sight of your own dick? I mean, it wasn’t disgusting or anything — it was still majestic and biblical in scale, but at the same time, I was all like, “Why have you done this to me? Haven’t I been good to you all these years?”
It looks at me and says, “You beat the shit out of me every night, you asshole!”
It was a lie, of course.
Why, after telling you all of this I probably shouldn’t have told you, did I start this particularly disturbing blog entry off feeling sorry for my son, Simon? Simon got my pinkeye.
Oh, I don’t feel sorry for him for that. I mean, the little ass kind of deserved it as he was fascinated — simply fascinated with my swollen red eye. So fascinated, in fact, that he would frequently and, without warning, jam his little brown fingers into it and say, in his most empathic tone, “Does that hurt, daddy?”
“It hurt a hell of a lot less before you stuck your finger in it, boy!”
Then, as young boys often do, his fingers traveled all over his own face: in his ear, up his nose, in his mouth, and in his own eye while I was trying my goddamnedest to shower him with hand sanitizer. We get home and, surprise surprise — guess which Mexican in my family has pinkeye?
We take the adorable little shit to the clinic where we’re told by a doctor, “Don’t worry, that will clear up in a day or two.”
A day or two later, when his eye has swollen up and is oozing pus and blood, we take him to another doctor who get angry with us for apparently not taking him to the doctor sooner. I explain where I took him and the doctor says, “Oh, wouldn’t go to that asshole again!”
Now my poor boy is on eyedrops that, based on the way he acts when they are put in his eye, are made of boiling lava. His eye has swollen to the point that his lower eyelid and eyelashes are being covered by his top lid — it literally looks like I punched him in the face as hard as I could which I would never do — I would slap so I would not leave a mark.
I hate this. I wish I could just rip the pinkeye out of him and take it for myself, but he screams every time I try so I won’t do that again. Maybe this will finally teach him that scratching his anus and then rubbing his eye with the same hand is probably not conducive to one’s health — either that, or the next infection we’ll be dealing with his Mexican ass worms up his nose.