For the past week or two, I’ve been experiencing excruciating pain behind my eyes that I chalked up to the heater drying my eyes out. My left eye was really red and swollen and when I started experiencing an ass load of symptoms – Wednesday night saw I-think-my-eyes-have-fallen-out-literally and my BB!Reid could not (shockingly) make this better; Thursday day I felt like I had slammed my head into my ceiling sometime in the middle of the night and (not surprisingly) forgot to tell the Mom about it; and Thursday night’s constant pressure, and the redness and watery-irritation spreading to my right eye – where I was feeling like a truck had run over my face 3858584858 times, something that only got worse over a period of seven hours, I made the truly magnificent decision to, ya’ know, tell the Mom about it.

The parents are cheapskates, cheapskates that work in the medical field¹ – which, ya’ know, isn’t at all bad, and is actually more convenient. The parents truly know certain things that other parents would pull out of their asses, and they have access to discounts on the money pit hole that is appointments and prescription medication. This does not, however, stop the parents from getting out of the sister and I going to do the Doctor, and it was to my surprise that the Mom got me in right away, and I was off to the eye doctor in five minutes flat.

My eye doctor was as flamboyant as ever, smelled like men’s cologne – a secret fetish of mine, and yes, I claim that is in no way as stalkerish as that sounds! – and was the second person to mistake me for a 16-year-old (the first being Christina » (kidding! (sort of lalala))). The Hannibal-esque equipment was still there – … yes, I did look for it, and was momentarily relieved to see it wasn’t there before I turned around and saw it sitting in the shadows behind me – they still left the computer sitting all open, hackable and tempting, and I swear every time I go there there’s something new to the endless amount of equipment – this time being a mechanical object that looked suspiciously like the gun Eames pulled out in Inception.

The point is, I have Iritis, which is basically just my irises being dicks and inflaming on me (I still love you, though!), and when I got home, I washed the dishes, pretended to be doing something on the computer, and watched a little bit of Criminal Minds and American Dad. I was redoing my toe nails when the Dad was all like, “WILL YOU STOP GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND CLIP YOUR FUCKING DAGGERS” and I said something along the lines of, “hmph!” and soon found myself laying on the floor of my bedroom, fake plastic sunglasses on and head underneath my bed to get away from the one window that wasn’t blocked out (and is conveniently the one that gets the most sunlight).

As usually happens when I’m left to my own devices », I started thinking, “oh, hey – maybe I should cover up that window so I can lay down on the bed”, which of course had me rifling through my drawers to find the only sheet available:

Yes, my Harry Potter sheets.

My Grandma had amazing taste – amazing taste in clothes, fashion, hair, make-up and, of course, decorating. She’d buy two or three sets of the same sheets, and make curtains to match the sheet set; she was fucking amazing besides, but really. So, the ‘curtains’ (they were totally sheets, but if she can do it, I can certainly half-try!) next to the Harry Potter sheets had a match, a match I made into a canopy top that remains to be finished.

And, really, Harry Potter sheets wouldn’t be a bad thing, except I care what people think. My room is one of those rooms that’s cluttered with my things – in a very organised sense, keep in mind – and when I force Krissy » into decorating my room she’ll take one glance at it and run with “go to interior decorating hell, Tess!”. I’m totally the one with the Star Trek, Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings and Batman figurines, the one who displays their crap TV series and movie collection all over the room, the one that flaunts questionable manga, and Harry Potter and Merlin slash photographs on two cork boards, and the one that has books about witchcraft and a Buddha figurine that’s rubbed periodically, and rocks from that one spiritual store that technically could be lived in if one went around sleeping in stores they wished they could live in.

I don’t care about these things, because they’re part of who I am, what makes up my heart, soul and terribly perverted personality. They’re all there for mostly shock value – but I don’t want some stranger to walk into my room saying, “oh, Star Trek, nice! There’s a digital T.V., oooh a canopy bed, a nice desk and a… not-really-nice clawed up chair OH YOU HAVE A CAT I AM ALLERGIC and that’s a nice vanity, so chic AND IS THIS HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE SHEETS AS CURTAINS WHAT IS LIFE AT LEAST DO MOVIE 5 I’M OUT”.