Eudora Batts Vs. the Eye Doctor's

Hey there, my hypothetical internet friend!

I guess most people go to the eye doctor’s office.  Personally, I think the eye doctor’s is worse than the dentist’s office, because in the dentist’s all you have to do in order to not experience extreme discomfort or pain is brush your fucking teeth (except that some people have dispositions to dental catastrophe, like my friend whose teeth are disintegrating and there’s nothing he can do about it).  Then again, I’ve never even had a cavity.  

At the eye doctors, I can’t escape.  They flip my eyelids back, drip stingy liquid on my eyeballs and of course, use this morsel of cleverly disguised sadism which shows the victim a picture of a cute little hot air balloon. 

 

“The balloon will slide in and out of focus,” they say.  

 

And then suddenly, there are bright red lights flashing, the machine is making creepy robotic death-sounds, and I’m wondering what exactly the repercussions would be if I stood my ass up and absconded with it out the door.  

I can’t seem to hold my eyes open because they are watering and miserable, and then comes the worst bit. 

*POOF* goes the air they shoot directly into my eyeball.  I blink and cry, but all they do is set the machine up to do the other eye.  

I don’t mind a lot of the other tests, but there is one you wouldn’t know unless you had glasses, and it tops the eye-poofer just for being really, really annoying.  Yes, I have glasses.  I didn’t put them in my picture because I felt it was too much detail.  But I wear them, every day, because not wearing them means I can’t actually recognize who I’m talking to (this happened with one of my best friends once.  She was not well pleased).  

Anyway, the thing that is the worst part of visiting the eye doctor’s is when they check to see if your prescription needs to be upgraded.  They set you in front of this giant device with all these lenses which sometimes make you feel as though you’re trying to see all the fishies through the rounded, plexiglass walls of an aquarium, and if that weren’t bad enough, they ask you questions. 

“Which is clearer,” they ask, flipping back and forth between lenses, “A, or B?”

“A………or B………………A…………or B?”  Well, at first this is easy, but when it gets to “Which is clearer, 5 or 6?  5, or 6?” they look pretty damn much the same.  

Situations like this sometimes present themselves to me in regular life (although I can think of a couple that are much more pleasurable than a doctor’s visit, and much dirtier) and I can’t help but want to scream “I don’t know, F and G look the same!” 

But no one understands the analogy unless they, too, have shitty eyesight.  Which is why I’m trying to illustrate it here, for any hypothetical who might have four-eyed friends, or for any glasses wearer that wants to know they’re not the only one who can’t tell the difference between the W and V lenses. 

Oh wait, what was that?  *hears a hypothetical voice*  I’m alone in this? 

Well, crap. 

At least they let me out afterward.  

  

My Photoshop May be Possessed by a Teenage Creeptard

Hello again, hypothetical reader!  I’m really excited to be writing a blog!

Today, I would like to make an observation.  It’s about Photoshop.  I freaking love Photoshop, and I spend a lot of time on it doing serious painting and just-for-fun photo edits, as well as the silhouettes I’m making for this place.  

Maybe I’ll post a few of my better paintings sometime, but for now, I’m just going to finally get around to the observation I mentioned in the previous paragraph.

Is it just me, or does my Photoshop program really have the attitude of a 13 year old metalhead pervert kid? 

I say this because it feels to me that almost half the time I randomly re-size a brush, it ends up being one of two numbers: 69, or 666. This happens like, all the fucking time. 

I’ve been trying to think of rational explanations, like maybe I’m the pervert and metalhead (I'm not a satanist in any way, but still, repeated numbers do stand out) and I’m projecting.  But like Neil Oliver said in Interstate 60, that’s just another way of saying I’m seeing things.

Except I’m not.  Really – it took me a while to notice in the first place.  I noticed it once or twice, but thought nothing of it.  Then it happened more frequently, and I became suspicious.  It ended up slowly dawning on me that, in fact, the program had the maturity of a 13 year old male child. 

Here's the way I see this going:

Since the program seems to be secretly raiding my stash of metal, it decides to play a prank on me, which is why this happens:

And conversely, we see this:

Which has this effect: 

So probably I'm crazy, but unsurprisingly, so is the rest of the world.  All I can do is hope my Photoshop doesn't age.  That would be very bad, no way around it.  It might go through an uber depressed stage, and then go back to being perverted, and then I'll have to help it deal with girl trouble.  

Then finally - finally - after years of putting up with its adolescent bullshit, it will gain some fucking maturity.  

By which time I will probably have to buy a new Photoshop. 

*Note from the rational part of my brain: ridiculously stupid speculation doesn’t count as lying.*

Eudora Batts and The Vow of Honesty

Dear Hypothetical Reader,

Hello!  I am Eudora Batts.  You may call me Eudora, or Miss Batts, or perhaps ‘girl,’ because I’ll respond to that anyway, but definitely not Dora.

If anyone calls me Dora, they will be tied to a chair made from the bones of the little childrens' dead goldfish and shown captioned photos - one of me that says “me” and one of Dora the Explorer that says “not me.”  Like this:

 

Anyways...I should probably explain a little, like maybe about why the hell I started a blog.  

I’ve never done it before, for one thing.  I don’t actually expect anyone to read it, but that doesn’t mean I won’t try to make it readable.  It’d be really awesome if someone did read my pointless crap - less pointless, I hope, than what I'm writing now.  I couldn't think of a topic to stand alone for my first post, so I ended up with an introduction.  Doesn't that make you, O hypothetical reader, so happy with me?

I’m going to try to make it funny, which probably means lots jokes involving death, murder, or sex*.  One can only hope I don’t use all three for one joke – or worse, pun. 

Who am I, really?  I’m just another American high schooler on the internets**.  I am definitely female, but by no means is Eudora Batts my real name.  Don’t ask why I chose that name out of all the thousands of millions of names, but I did.   I chose a pseudonym because I don't want anyone I know to find out about this through me.  Anyone who does read this does so by their own faults. 

So that single, solitary thing isn’t true, and I won’t lie about it.  In fact, I’m stating clearly that any names I mention will not be the names of the real people their actions are attributed to.  I'll make them up. 

But apart from that, I’m vowing right here and now to write only what I know to be the truth from now on.  It may be exaggerated, like the goldfish bones thing ***, but my meaning will at least always be true.  I can only tell things from my perspective, but I won’t make them up.  And I may be wrong – but I won’t lie.  

I’m going to write about things I notice.  Things that make me laugh and all the cool shit I find leading my somewhat conventional life.  I’ll write about the monster under my bed (his name is Doppelganger.  I read him out of a Monster Manual when I was seven) and the monster in my walls (his name is Inky.  He helps me think of things to do when I’m bored, like setting stuff on fire or starting blogs), and about many things I find a wee bit strange.  

 

Although I must warn you – I find myself a bit strange, too.  

*sorry about that.  

** sorry about that, too.  But I didn't have much of a choice.  At least, not a better one.  

*** see (*) and (**)