Feature Article

Eye Spy With My Little Eye 

by Ismael Manzano


            Okay, weblanders and loyal fan.  Those of you who have grown accustomed to a certain level of professionalism, a witty flare, a satirical slant on topics, or just plain funny comments from yours truly, look away from the computer screen now.  These will—most likely—not be one of those rants.  This one rant, like the name implies, will be me, bare naked, airing my current grievance for all of you to be forced to read.  No witty flare, no satirical slants, no funny comments—unless I just can’t help myself…because, let’s face it, I’m a charming individual—No!  This rant is about me and my problems.  If you have problems of your own, so what!  I’m not you.  I never will be you!  And you—thank goodness—will never be me!  So since I don’t live with your problems, sit back and enjoy mine!  Why?  Well…because I’m telling you to…Isn’t that what you agreed to do—listen to my rants—when you elected me supreme god of all things G-Pop?  Oh…that didn’t happen…too bad.  Shut up and listen.

            By this time you might be asking yourself, “what’s his problem?”  Well I’ll tell you.  I’m pissed off, irate, angry, incensed, outraged, and maybe even a little miffed.  Why?  Well, after yet another trip to the doctor to find the source or solution to my little “blurry vision problem” I discovered that I—about to turn thirty, aspiring writer and master of Popology—have glaucoma.  That’s right, glaucoma.  That’s not a misprint.  I didn’t mean to write an in-grown toenail and instead wrote glaucoma because I can’t see the keys straight because of the obstructive blurs in my vision caused by my fu**ing glaucoma!  I actually have glaucoma!  What the fu**!  When did I turn into your grandfather? 

            What caused my early onset of glaucoma, those of you who have not already closed down your web browsers might ask?  That’s the kicker.  No one knows.  It’s not supposed to happen to people this young.  Not at all.  I guess you can blame my genetic abnormality or my inbreeding parents, or whatever deity out there that—apparently—has a sense of humor after all.  “Hey, let’s give that aspiring—all I want out of life is to be a writer—writer there with the fu**ed up vision some glaucoma for his troubles.  That’ll be a hoot.”  Actually, it would be, if it was anybody else but me…What? I’m selfish, I can admit my faults.  Like the fault I have where I have glaucoma!  That’s a pretty big fault, wouldn’t you say?

            For those of you who might think that I might have somehow brought this on myself for my wild life of smoking and not going to college—hey I don’t have to make sense, shut up—I’ll say this:  I wasn’t smoking or planning on not going to college thirteen years ago when that son-of-a-bitch glaucoma sacked part of my vision in my right eye in a cowardly, overnight sneak attack, while my poor eye and its subordinate veins were resting comfortably.  I was living clean and planning ahead.  And what did that get me?  Say it with me…G to the L to the A to the U to the C to the O to the M to the A…glaucoma!  These last ten years of smoking and not going to college must have done me some good, because I hadn’t have another blind spot until—guess what?—I stopped smoking and started college again.  What does that tell you?  Nothing!  I know it doesn’t make sense, but I don’t have to make sense…I told you this would not be one of those intellectual rants, so deal with it!

            So what do I have to look forward to now?  Well, I have to look forward to taking drops, oral medication, laser procedures or surgery, depending on how bad it gets, to treat my condition.  I have to look forward to hearing words like ‘ciliary processes,’ ‘anterior chamber,’ ‘trabecular meshwork,’ and ‘trabeculoplasy.’  What do all those fancy words mean?  I don’t know!  They gave me a pamphlet!! 

            It was bad enough when I found out I had that heart thing where the valves don’t beat right, or that other thing where my blood tends to clot or even that weird freaky brown, hairy patch on my arm that showed up with I was eight and grew until I was eighteen—yeah, ain’t I painting a sexy picture of myself right now.  Back off brown, hairy patch loving ladies, this one’s taken—but now I have old man disease.  Whose halo did I piss on?  (I’d like to take this moment to apologize to every deity, angel, spirit, god, or higher plain being that has ever put in a good word for me or helped me out without telling me about.  Keep up the good work.  I’m just upset.  I’ll get over it). 

            Well, that’s probably all I can write about the subject of my condition, as I’m sure you are all fairly well miffed by now too.  So I’ll wrap up for you.  In conclusion…you’re mother’s a whore!  What does your mother’s nocturnal pastime and/or only source of income have to do with this rant?  I have glaucoma, that’s what! 

Like what I have to say, check out the Random Acts Archive!

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