I recently checked into my new insurance plan, and I found out that I have eye doctor coverage. With this coverage, I also have contacts paid for! So I made my way to the doctor and had myself an exam.

After all was said and done, the doctor approached me with her finger extended and a lens on its tip. The lens glistened from the saline solutions, just as her fangs exposed themselves and glistened in the room's minimal light. She held me down and started poking my eye.

Try #1 failed.

Try #2 failed.

Try #3 failed, and she gave up.

It was likened to giving a cat a pill after my claws came out, the meowing started, and I squirmed an unbelievable amount. If I were Hambone, she'd have definitely been bitten. I feel she escaped just fine, as no blood was drawn. Having your hair messed up isn't that big a deal. Take out a comb and get over it.

I had to come back that next Friday for a quick lesson on how to take care of my lenses, put them in, and take them out. It took several tries, but eventually I got them placed correctly.

With instructions to wear them for four hours that day, I went home.

And what's the first thing I did after getting home? What a big no-no with contact lens wearing? As I had stayed up entirely too long the night before helping Benito pack up the rest of his old house, I fell asleep soon after I fed the cats and plopped on the couch.

At about 11 o'clock -- two hours after I was supposed to take out my lenses from their inaugural run -- I stumble sleepily to the bathroom to take them out.

Try #1 failed.

Try #2 failed.

Tries 3-16 failed, and I started crying from a combination of frustration, sleepiness, and hormones.

But once I got back to my regular Fonzi coolness, I remembered that no one ever died from having a contact stuck in her eyes. A mere few tries later, and my eyes were lens-free.

The next day I knew it was going to be a drinking day/night, so I kept the glasses on. I was sufficiently blitzed by 7 p.m., ate a burrito, and then finished a single Miller High Life (you've gotta love the champagne of beers) before retiring at my friends' house at something ridiculous like 10 o'clock.

The next morning I bounced up at 7:30, read about 80 pages of some book I had heard of but had never read, and ate a bowl of dry Cinnamon Toast Crunch. My friends and I argued about why people our age are all so liberal (social guilt combined with what's popular combined with having nothing to protect combined with an ultra-liberal college campus), and I walked to the el.

After making myself presentable, I called a very sleepy and hungover Benito, who asked that I try again in an hour and a half. I read a bunch more, packed up some supplies (two Subway sammiches, two diet sodas, some bottled water, a sleeve of crackers, and some Carmel deLites), and hit the streets on my rollerblades for what should have been a quick 3-mile jaunt to his new pad.

No such luck.

The wind was crazy, keeping me hunched over and pushing off with my thighs. Seeing that this was my first blade in months, it took an incredibly long amount of time to get there. At one stop light, I took refuge in a bus stop to keep me from rolling into traffic.

I finally made it to Benito's where we ate our sammich feast while watching a Tivo'ed version of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and lounged until inspiration and motivation struck.

We moved the livingroom all around. We unpacked a few boxes. We cleaned out a few drawers. We found enough sheets and pillows to make the bed. We made a grocery store run for TP and more diet soda, went to Best Buy to look at speakers and wireless satellite hook-up stuff, comparison shopped at Circuit Shitty, and bought some pita chips at Whole Foods. We unpacked some more, broke down boxes, and stood in the cold to dispose of them -- all the while building up our appetites again.

El Presidente Restaurante got our business, and it was a decent $4 burrito. After some food coma lounging, I got a ride home.

And the good thing before I easily feel asleep? My contacts came out on the first try. �