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I rub my eyes, but it doesn’t make things any clearer.
Stupid contact lenses! I knew I shouldn’t have left them in before I dragged my hapless, drunk ass to bed.
Rolling over onto my side, I prop myself up and grab a bottle of Clear Eye saline from the nightstand. As I pinch the clear plastic bottle, releasing those tiny droplets of saline solution, I wince in pain.
I may be a man, but salt water on dry eyes hurts like hell!
I rub my temples and scold myself for having gone out last night. For having gotten plastered when I specifically told myself I wouldn’t. Alcohol and I just don’t mix, but I never seem to learn my lesson. When good old Jack comes a-calling, I’ve got a shot glass ready in hand. Not that I’m some kind of alcoholic or whatever. I appreciate the fine taste of any smooth spirit. Who doesn’t?