Prefatory Note: Look, I didn’t ask for this. Nobody wakes up thinking, “Today’s the day my eye turns into a weepy, crusty traitor.” But here we are, and since I’m stuck with it, you’re stuck with me telling you about it. Blame the universe, or maybe that sketchy gas station burrito. Either way, buckle up—CLS

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your eyes—well, maybe not, because one of mine’s currently staging a revolt that’d make a toddler jealous. It’s Wednesday morning as I type this, and I’m sitting here with a case of pinkeye that hit me harder than a linebacker on a quarterback with no offensive line. You know, the kind of surprise that makes you wonder if life’s just a cosmic prank show, and I’m the guy who didn’t read the fine print.

It started innocently enough. Monday night, I’m minding my own business, scrolling X twitter for the latest outrage bait—because what else am I gonna do, read a book?—when I feel a little itch in my left eye. No biggie, right? I rub it, figure it’s just the screen glare or maybe the soul-crushing weight of modernity. By Tuesday morning, though, that itch has turned into a full-on rebellion. I wake up, stumble to the mirror, and there it is: a red, gooey mess staring back at me like I’ve been cast as the villain in a low-budget zombie flick. My wife takes one look and says, “You’re not kissing me with that face,” which, fair, but ouch.

Now, I’m no doctor—despite my extensive WebMD training—but I know pinkeye’s one of those things you don’t just “walk off.” So I call my GP, who’s probably tired of my hypochondriac ass by now, and he says, “Yeah, sounds like conjunctivitis. Don’t touch anything, don’t look at anyone, and for God’s sake, don’t come here until you’ve got drops.” Great. I’m a biohazard now. The pharmacist hands me the antibiotic drops like I’m picking up a controlled substance, and I swear she muttered, “Good luck, Typhoid Mary,” under her breath.

Here’s the kicker: I have no idea how I got it. I haven’t been wrestling toddlers in a daycare petri dish or shaking hands with some crusty-eyed stranger. My best guess? That gas station burrito I grabbed on the way back from Knoxville last week. You know the one—sitting under the heat lamp like it’s auditioning for “Survivor: Road Trip Edition.” Maybe the guy who rolled it sneezed into the beans. Maybe the cashier rubbed his eye before handing me my change. Or maybe—and I’m spitballing here—the universe just decided I needed a humbling, and pinkeye’s cheaper than therapy.

So now I’m quarantined in my own house, looking like I lost a bar fight with a pollen cloud. My daughter keeps asking why Daddy’s eye is “sad,” and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s not sad, it’s just pissed off. My dog, bless her, doesn’t care—she’s still licking my face, which probably means she’s next. The drops are helping, sort of, but every time I blink, it feels like my eyelid’s auditioning for sandpaper spokesperson. And the crust? Oh, the crust. I wake up each morning looking like I’ve been crying glitter tears in my sleep.

Naturally, I turned to the internet for solace. Big mistake. X twitter is full of people saying pinkeye’s a sign of “toxins” or “5G interference,” and I’m over here like, “Bro, it’s bacteria, not a conspiracy.” Then there’s the home remedy crowd—rubbing garlic on it, rinsing with tea, or, my favorite, “just pee in your eye, it’s sterile.” Yeah, no thanks, I’ll stick to the $12 drops and my dignity, what’s left of it.

What’s the moral here? Hell if I know. Maybe it’s “wash your hands,” or “don’t trust gas station cuisine,” or “life’s too short to take your eyeballs for granted.” All I can tell you is I’m counting the days until this clears up, because I’ve got a Zoom call next week, and I’d rather not look like I’ve been sobbing through a rom-com marathon. Until then, I’m rocking sunglasses indoors like a budget Bono and praying my other eye doesn’t join the mutiny.

Stay safe out there, folks. And if you see me coming, maybe cross the street—just in case.