Word: ones
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...hours later, I met my blockmates for dinner. “What’s wrong with you?” one of them asked from about 15 feet away. I guess my eye situation had not improved...
...One of my roommates, a veteran of battles with her own eyes, stepped up to the plate. She taught me how to detect a stye, and brought me compresses made from hot tea bags. She also gave dirty looks to the girl at the end of the table who could not stop staring...
...that I could blame her. I was sitting there curled up in a dining hall chair, holding teabags over my eye, and whining dramatically about how “I had just never felt this way before.” I winced each time I looked toward one of the chandeliers overhead, and spent the majority of the meal with my eyes closed, wrapped up in my own world, inserting random comments into the conversation...
...awoken by my obnoxious phone alarm more times than should ever be legal. The next few days were a blur, as I stumbled around in a world I saw through half-20/20, half-foggy vision. I eventually resorted to a pirate-esque eye patch to keep things in one perspective...
...project group was probably less than thrilled about my struggles on the day of our big presentation, but instead they offered me reassurance and the opportunity to take a nap if I needed it. My blockmates stuck with me through a tediously long dinner, and brought me the one thing they knew would make me feel better the next night (’Noch’s, duh). And in case I had ignored my alarm, my ever-vigilant father spent the next two nights waking himself up to call...