. . .

Panic attack

I woke up this morning with a mild hardon, the feeling that I'd left something important undone, and a third eye. It's set into my left palm.

This is, understandably, I think, a bit unnerving. I hadn't expected to grow new eyes during the night. I'd kind of figured the two I was born with were my full allotment for this lifetime. Not to mention that putting it in my left palm wasn't the way I'd have thought best to do things. I mean, sure, I can get a good view all over simply by facing my palm in a different direction, but it's very disorientating to have a part of your vision slewing all over the place whenever you move. My brain isn't used to correlating its signals with those of my other two yet, and I keep getting the feeling that the pencil I'm reaching for is hurtling at top speed towards my head.

And then there's the problem that I can't hold anything in that hand without poking myself in the eye unless I'm really, really careful. It hurts quite a bit, I might add, to smack yourself in the eye with your forehead while trying to find out whether you are feverish. I wouldn't recommend trying it out to anyone else similarly afflicted.

I'm taking it well, I suppose. I'm not gibbering at the mouth to discover that I'm no longer shaped quite like all the other members of my species. In fact, maybe I'm taking it a bit... too well. Maybe whatever gave me this... alteration altered me in other ways as well. No, no, that way lies madness. After all, how could I ever know for sure?

You know, for the first time in ages, I wish I was a righty. I can't play in my weekly tennis game like this. I couldn't hold the racket. It'll be pretty easy for me to remember that the eye is there, since I'm getting vision from it, but it's still going to be a hassle to deal with. I'm just glad it doesn't interfere with writing on the computer. I can stand staring at the "Alt" key while I type.

This still isn't something I'm really prepared for. It's not even a third nipple. At least that I'd have some idea that it was somehow the work of Satan. No one left a calling card on this. It would be nice to see, written on my new eyelid, a message saying "Hi! You've been modified by Genecrafters Anonymous, Inc. Try our new line of arms!" At least then I'd know. This ignorance is getting to me.