TEST, TEST, testing 1 2 3 . . .

Ah, the sweet serenade of modern medicine — that glorious ballet of clicks, passwords, and privacy disclaimers nobody reads. Log in, verify your existence three different ways, and congratulations! You’ve unlocked the privilege of viewing your slow biological decline in high definition. The Retinas Doctor’s patient portal: where your medical misery gets archived for posterity. Truly, the internet at its noblest.

So, yes, the three-hour office visit. Necessary, apparently. Twelve tests, eight procedures, and a dazzling five-minute encounter with the ophthalmological deity herself — the Wonder Woman of the cornea. She swept in like a caffeinated oracle, skimmed my chart with divine indifference, and bestowed upon me the great gift of, “We’ll schedule a follow-up.” I nearly wept.

Today, my eye hurts. Or maybe it’s my soul, staging a protest. Hard to know these days. Ever since they confirmed something might be wrong, every twitch feels like a countdown. It’s psychosomatic déjà vu — anxiety cosplaying as symptoms, and I’m the captive audience.

Next stop on the Medical Mystery Tour: Election Day. Nothing says civic duty like voting for the lesser evil in the morning and getting your ocular nerve scanned in the afternoon. On the docket: Dilated Exam, Anterior Segment Photos OU, OCT Macula OU, Fundus Photos OU, A-Scan OD, B-Scan OD, and—because why stop there—a UBM OD. I know what a photo is, but I couldn’t pick my fundus out of a lineup. Still, if someone’s photographing it, I’ll try to look photogenic. Say “cheese,” inner eyeball.

Somewhere in the administrative ether, a PET scan is allegedly being scheduled. My doctor insists it’ll happen “before the next appointment.” I, on the other hand, believe in unicorns, prompt medical scheduling, and other fine myths of the modern world.

And finally, a formatting update: I’m changing the tag font. Something cleaner. Something that screams existential resignation with a hint of class. Helvetica, maybe. The font of quiet panic, corporate emails, and medical records that will outlive us all.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler