Open Letter to my Left Contact Lens

Dear Left Contact Lens,

Why do you have to be such a little bitch? I've been working with your kind for almost twenty years, and in that time I've never had to deal with such a prima donna. Sometimes I wish you could be more like your doppelganger, Right Contact Lens. Every morning he goes in, every night he comes out, and frankly he just gets his shit done without all the drama.

Pardon the bad language, but you are driving me fucking crazy.

For example, last Tuesday you were filthy and obviously couldn't care less about the big budget meeting that Kathy scheduled for 9am Friday morning (btw, who does that?). I had to rush off to work and you were acting like a little fucking baby. First of all, you were covered in eyelashes (if you didn't already know, eyelashes are like white-hot fire pokers to the naked eyeball). Also, I could distinctly make out at least three different splotches of protein buildup on your face. Have you no respect for yourself, Left Contact Lens?

Meanwhile, Right Contact Lens and I are ready to walk out the door, but you know we can't leave without you. It would make driving wildly unsafe, and there's lots of kids in our neighborhood. How would you feel if I plowed through a game of street hockey due to a loss of depth perception because I was only wearing one contact lens? Hopefully you would feel pretty shitty. But to be completely honest, I'm not so sure you can even feel emotion anymore. And street hockey has really declined in popularity.

Look, we both know that for economical reasons I have to employ your services well beyond the contracted end date. But in this post-9/11 world, do you think you could step it up a little?

Myopically yours,

Jose Brando