Last night I arrived at the Aabrock’s house in North Cackalacky. I slept in a room that was so dark, so quiet and so comfortable that it could double as a sensory deprivation chamber. This was the dream I had:
I realize that I have a third eyeball to the right of my right eye. I don’t know how long I’ve had it. Nobody else seems to notice. Is it because they’re used to seeing it? Is it because they’re all just too dern polite to say anything? I can’t tell. They say nothing, I say nothing.
Of course, I’ve got to wonder why my optometrist never said anything. You’d think that noticing supernumerary eyeballs would be somewhere in his job description.
I wonder about surgery to remove the extra eye. Some good surgeons should be able to scoop that thing out, throw a prosthetic bone in there and stitch it up real nice-like. And I’d still be able to see perfectly well; my vision is still binocular, meaning the third eye is doing nothing. More precisely, it means one of my three eyes is doing nothing. After some rudimentary vision tests involving a mirror and waving my hand in front of my face, I realize that my third eye is functional– it’s my left eye that doesn’t work.
So to clarify: if I were to have the nonfunctional eye removed, my face, from left to right, would go empty eye socket, functional right eyeball in the proper location, functional further-right eyeball close to right temple. Since that would probably look even more bizarre than I already do, I decide to leave well enough alone. When the new seven-a-side soccer season starts, I’ll wear jersey number three.
I woke up with the correct number and placement of eyeballs.
I’ll have to go back later and fill in the italics.