Meditations on Squishiness

I just threw my disposable contacts away tonight, after they bugged out while I was pouring over my Jr. Poet articles. As I was tossing them in the Texas-Trashcan, caressing their jellyfish-like squishiness one last time, I paused and realized that I felt a subtle twinge of the conscience. It seemed almost like a desecration or a betrayal to merely dump them with the old teabags. They were in my eyes for two months. It's almost like a relationship: we went through the rough patches like when I spent the entire Latin Grammer Review class vigorous rotating my right contact around trying to get whatever fleck of pain was scratching my cornea into spasms. Even through the misty film of excruciating ocular agony, I realized that it was worth working through because of the clarity and guidance the contacts always gave me, no matter what. And now...at the end I merely toss it in a $4.75 trashcan beacuse that is the acceptable finale. I suppose some people reading this will think I am over-reacting. It is that same callousness, however, that justifies "burying" the pet goldfish by flushing him down the toilet. Just as you cannot flush a pet, something you named and talked to, it seems equally grotesque to wad up your contacts and think no more. They were not merely two plastic disks suctioned to your eyes; as Rasselas the Depressed Goldfish listened when you were lonely (as well as anything can listen when under water) your contacts stuck by you and gave you the gift of sight, you bat-blind ingrate. They deserve something better. I hope I've given you all something to think about.