The Lens Drama

Last Thursday, I travelled to the South of my country to sunbathe and study History for three days.

Something you need to know about me is that I have very bad sight. Okay, not that bad - there are people who have it worse than me - but bad enough that I can't see anything clearly if it's far away enough. How ironic is it that I didn't take my glasses or any backup lenses when I traveled? Very.

On the second day, I once again headed to the beach. It was a very short walk away from my hotel, and the water was simply heavenly. Cold, but still warmer than the water from the beach near where I live.

Before getting out of the water and going to tan a bit more, I took another dive. When I resurfaced, I noticed I couldn't see anything from my left eye. I didn't think any of it, because my lenses sometimes decide to relocate.

YES, my eye color is the same as my hair color *gasp* Pretty.

Anyway. Turns out, it wasn't that at all. I really had lost my lens in the middle of the sea, and I had no way of tracking it down. And you know what that means, don't you? It means ... I was doomed to walk around with only one lens until mid-Saturday (meaning, the next day).

I went home a little after that, and I had to cover my left eye to be able to see anything properly and to be able to study History. However, I had to go out for dinner, which meant I couldn't simply cover my left eye with one hand in the middle of the street.

Dinner was an awkward affair, in which I sometimes covered my left eye to be able to look at my parents and talk to them properly, and the walk to the marina after that was even worse. Seriously, who climbs up about 100 steps of stairs with only one good eye? No one who is in their right mind, that is.

Finally, at 11 pm, I found an optical store open which, luckily for me, sold lenses. My problem was solved in that instant, but one lesson remained: never, EVER, dive with your eyes open if you wear lenses. NEVER.

Why You Should Never Help A Drunk Friend

Yesterday morning I went to the doctor, only to find out I had pharyngitis. Since I was already there anyway, I made myself comfortable and asked about a much more light subject (at least on my opinion, even though everyone else disagrees with me). You see, I have a story to tell you ...

About two months ago, a few friends and I traveled to the South of Spain and stayed there for seven nights. Spain is a place very, very known for tequila so, us being there, we couldn't help but be overwhelmed by tequila, even though it is definitely not a novelty here. Let me tell you though, it tastes very differently - it's quite good in Spain, actually. Go there.

Anyway. On the third night, everyone in general had too much tequila to drink, as well as Vodka Redbull's. We went to a very popular club which was, unfortunately, open for only 3/4 nights during our stay. In this club, you could gain access to the dance floor by four different corridors, which was very overwhelming for people who were as drunk as we were.

One of my friends had a little too much to drink, though, and after a few songs, I suddenly felt him leaning over the rail of the platform we were dancing on. He was quite white, actually. I, being the generous and general-loving person I am, immediately grabbed his arm and led him towards the exit.

However, and as I said before, the ways to the exit were ... confusing. Definitely very confusing. I let him through corridors and corridors, and we were no closer to finding the exit than when we were standing on the platform dancing. Suddenly, he had enough (and he was probably close to throwing up right there, too), and he grabbed my arm and pointed towards the Emergency Exit. I shook my head, pulled him along with me, but he pulled me towards him at the same time. The result? We fell. We fell so hard, we single-handendly pushed open the Emergency Exit doors and fell down a heap of stairs along the way, always rolling.

The days following that, I couldn't sit without my butt hurting, I couldn't get up without being helped by my friends, etc. And to this day, even though the pain has become more 'wearable', I still feel the pain. Plus, my butt is still all swelled up.

Declaring A Major 101

I read somewhere that if I wanted people to be interested in this blog, I had to pick a general theme and stick to it. My blog's name is 'Dumb People Shouldn't Have Blogs'. What the hell do I make this blog about, then?

Exams? Nah. I'm already bored enough with them as it is.

Running and dieting? That'll just depress me, so no.

My personal life? I already have a Livejournal, and either way, my personal life is just ... well, right now it's come down to only studying, so ... nope.

What, then? I can't talk about anything else. Politics? I discuss them everyday at dinner with my parents. Gardening? I haven't ever planted anything my whole life. Dogs? I'm scared of dogs (despite the fact that I own a dog. Hey, what if I posted an entry on how I became scared of dogs?) Make-up? ... Right. 

So, I've reached the decision that, for now, my blog's theme will be undecided. You know, like in college? Where you haven't declared a major yet? Right. Maybe someday I'll decide it. UNTIL THEN, I'll just identify different types of posts by labels.

The dog story will come. I promise.

How To Have A Fantastically Awkward Conversation About Socks

So I suppose that this will be my method for procrastinating as I study for very important exams. Note that I woke up at 10 30 am today and will probably go to sleep near 3 am (as always) and, so far, I've only studied for what? 45 minutes? This study is definitely not going well.

I'm not sure what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, though. I already have a blog over at Livejournal, but it's one of those. You know, one of those blogs which are private and contain very private parts of my life (just kidding, it's not like I have a very big reason to keep it private. I just do. Also, it's very old).

Why, if I already have a blog, did I start a blog over here then? I don't know - experience, maybe? Wanting to successfully stalk Hyperbole and a Half? (YES, YES!) Maybe. But also, it's because Melody isn't even my real name, I'm not actually from the United States, and I can talk about whatever without worrying that someone who actually knows me will read it and then strike up a fantastically awkward conversation about my blog. For example:

Subject who is not me: Hey! I found your blog!

Me: Oh. Really? Ah ...

That subject again: Yeah. At first I wasn't sure, but then I read more attentively and I realized it could only be you.

Me: Oh. How ... attentive of you.

Subject: Yeah. So anyway, have you already gotten over the shock of that walk you took?

Me: Yeah, I suppose.

Subject: Awesome! And is your foot better?

Me: ... No?

Subject: Aw that sucks. Well, I'll 'see your around' then! *winks* Hey make sure to follow me back, will you?

Me: *pretends to not have listened*

Yeah. I guess that's what I want to avoid, especially because I don't like people - you know, actual people with who I hang out with in a nearly daily basis (not that you guys aren't real people, of course) - knowing everything about my life. Like the fact that my white sock ripped itself the other day when I was putting on my running sneakers and yet I didn't bother with it because I'm just slobbish like that.

Well.

Let's see if anyone bothers to read this. I bet no one will.