Your right contact lens has bloody well vanished after falling little further then the length of your gurning face.
No longer present in our universe, the only means of successfully navigating your life literally slipped through your fingers at the molecular level, bounced through the angles of time and probably materialised atop a mountain of pure diamond in a entirely separate continuum, run by insects.
In no way connected to your frenzied and overslept cack-handedness, your untimely dearth of vision is a direct and personal attack on you by God, The Fates and all high-grade plastic polymers.
‘I called off the search the moment the b*stard dropped’ you later told a hugely blurry object that you assumed to be a colleague in a red dress. ‘The chances of finding a tiny, transparent object that can stick to a vertical surfaces are actually lower than looking for a needle in a haystack…without any contact lenses, strangely’
The ‘colleague’ it later transpired, was a post box.