Dear Carmine's Pizzeria

I have worn glasses for the past eight years.  I should have been wearing them for the past eleven, but apparently an overweight college kid whose only "good" shirt is a throwback Phillies customized jersey has some problems with vanity when it comes to eye wear.  I get tired of constantly having to clean my glasses, or take them off when walking in the rain, or not being able to see much when I exercise.  Therefore, I decided to try contacts two years ago.  Whatever novelty I had from being able to see without glasses was kicked in the head after the second or third time I was late to work because I couldn't get the lenses to stay in.  I also had a problem with the contacts trying to burrow their way into the back of my eye sockets like naughty little gophers that just wanted to hide.  I still have the majority of that first order of contact lenses in my drawer, woefully out of prescription and date. So, when I found out that it had become remarkably more affordable to get LASIK eye surgery, I signed up for a free visit to see if I was a candidate.

Of course, the closest place to get checked out was over an hour away, so I was up nice and early to make my appointment and I was reservedly excited.  The bad signs started fairly soon.  Due to some trickster demon making the office building move around, I was almost late to my appointment.  I signed in, filled out my forms, and got through the first half hour of tests with no problems.  My murse Brad, who I had foolishly started to trust at this point, then told me he would have to numb my eyeballs, and asked if I had any history of fainting.  I explained I had only fainted once, while giving blood because I hate needles and cry when I see them while in a cage match against five bears, only after having used one bear's body to bludgeon another.  He put the drops in, and then poked my eyeballs with a machine, explaining that this was usually where people get squeamish.  No such problem from me, but over the next minute or so, my eyeballs got very heavy, and this is not a good thing.  When your eyes get heavy, apparently the rest of your head gets much lighter, which I started to explain to Murse Brad before passing out.

I remember dreaming I was underwater.  I can't swim, so this was not a happy circumstance for me.  I started screaming, but no one could hear me under the water.

At this point, I woke up, screaming in awake-world.  Murse Brad, in the minute I was unconscious, did the honorable thing and got a doctor instead of helping himself to a big old pile of molesting an unconscious Greg.  So, when I woke, there was Brad, a doctor, and two cute lady nurses.  Before I could turn up the charm, my body went into its second wave of attack, which was making me sweat so hard that I soaked through my clothes in three minutes.  The doctor, trying not to drown in my perspiration, explained to me that I went into a small seizure as I woke up, and that the sweat was probably due to a large amount of adrenaline my brain was letting loose upon my tortured body.  He told me that an ambulance had been called, and that I had to wait to talk to the EMT's.  As a rebuttal, I threw up in his wastebasket.

Greg-1, Doctor-0.

The EMT's arrived, checked my signs, and said that I could go.   They only advised me to get something to eat to counteract the nausea and sent me out into the world, pupils dilated and clothes soaked.  I knew I couldn't go to get food dressed as I was, so I walked a block to the nearest shopping center.  This was not just any shopping center though.  No, I had been here before.  If I was to procure new clothes, I would have to do so at the Burlington Coat Factory.  I wandered in and headed for the Big and Tall section, but it became clear that my eyes would not be able to read any of the tags.  I went to a rack I thought held clothes of the correct size, felt around for some fabric I liked in a color that wasn't too bad, and pulled out a shirt.  Then, I turned to a man that was shopping at the next row over, held up the shirt, and asked him what size it was.  In retrospect, I feel sorry for this man.  All he wanted was some discount clothing.  What he got was a large, drenched man with giant pupils asking him what size a shirt is that he pulled from a clearly marked rack.  To his credit, he leaned in hesitantly, and confirmed it was the correct size.  I thanked him, and bid him a fine day.

Getting to the register, I realized I had no idea how much the shirt cost, having not further quizzed my friend the good Samaritan.  The cashier was less enthusiastic to help me.  "It's on the tag." she told me, indifferent to the ordeal I had weathered.  When I told her I couldn't read it, she was even less thrilled, and was done with me when she told me it was $8 and I then asked what brand it was.  I cut my losses, paid, and changed my shirt at the car.  Now, properly attired, and looking less like drowned bear, I was able to procure some pizza from your fine pizzeria.

This brings me to the purpose for this letter.  On previous occasions, your establishment had crushed ice in the drinks.  This is by far my favorite type of it.  This time, you had ungainly cubes.  Please remedy this immediately, because it ruined what was an otherwise fine meal.