Dear Squishy Eyeball,
I curse the day I met you (yesterday). You have become the sand in my swimsuit, the gnat in my eye, the corn kernel stuck in my teeth at a bar-b-que that I just… can’t… get… rid of. I despise you, fake sticky cheap-looking eyeball. You don’t even have an iris, just a black tacky pupil. When all added together in a lump sum of frantic searches, I have sought you out for probably an entire hour over the course of this day. I have crawled on hands and knees on the sidewalk in front of our neighbor’s house, searching amidst the dirt and grit when you spilled out of a hollow plastic pumpkin after Milo tripped and screamed, “Oh nooooooo! Where’s my eyeball!????” I have looked for you behind the toilet, IN the toilet, in the laundry basket, on top of the sink, in the trashcan, and under the couch, only to find you inside the squeezy end of a turkey baster, STUCK inside until squeeeezed back out and into the outstretched doughy little hand awaiting the prize.
I have fished you out of a fountain, dug you in and out and in and out of pockets, even washed you in the bathtub. What more do you want from me? We have been acquainted for merely two days, and already you insist on running my life. So be very careful, my young orbital friend. You are skating on some very thin ice, and may just find yourself “lost” for good. I hear the sewer is no place for an eyeball.