Saturday was a pretty major shock to my wallet. I hit specsavers to see about getting some new glasses only to discover that my eyesight has deteriorated *again* and I'm at something like -8.5/-9.5 (down from -7.5/-8) which introduces some problems when putting together my new glasses, namely that the lenses are destined to be of epic thickness and have to be ordered in special and made from a special polycarbonate. The upshot is that vanity wouldn't let me cart around a set of centimeter thick lenses on my face so I wound up paying a fortune for the thinnest lenses I could get. Then I find out that I stand a significant risk of going blind, that my retinas would like nothing more than to detatch and move to a nicer spot elsewhere on my head and that instead of going to a doctor about this goddamned eye infection that four appointments and hundreds of euro have failed to deal with I could have just used a seven quid over the counter antibiotic to deal with it in a day or two. Fan-frigging-tastic. If it all clears up by next weekend I'll be getting some disposable contact lenses, just to see how they feel and look.
After a kick in the wallet like that I decided I needed a drink so that evening I headed out to fibbers and proceeded to get fairly decisively drunk. I met a few people I'd not seen in a while and wound up talking to the irish ultimate fighting champion for a little while and made every effort to avoid any sudden movements. Later, as I stood outside fibbers waiting for realta to emerge and looking surly and filled with attitude someone came up to me and asked if I was okay because I looked a little bit "sad". Admittedly, by that point I had about ten shots inside me so I only had limited ability to judge what the hell my face was doing but I could have sworn I was at least scowling. Perhaps some of the realisation that I couldn't safely move from the busstop I was leaning against softened that expression somewhat, I just don't know.
My discovery for sunday was that a junkfood and whiskey bender hits you twice as hard as normal when you've been living healthily for a couple of months. The upshot was that leaving the house was not really on the cards so I watched about twenty episodes of scrubs and occasionally complained to thin air about how bad I felt. This led to boredom, which in turn led to me standing in the bathroom wondering whether or not I really needed my facial hair. In the end I decided to give it a stay of execution but I think its only a matter of time before whatever it is thats driving the urge to shave finally wins out. There's a reason I've kept it for as long as I have but I'll be damned if I remember what it was - I suspect there's something wrong with my chin.