Dealing with all the evil forces at UCF

Some people refer to UCF as being its own town. They are incorrect.

UCF is its own universe, complete with supernatural, good and evil, forces.  

On my drive to school today, I call the health clinic to make an appointment. A person quickly answers and tells me I can be seen right away.  

I first make a quick stop at the parking garage and attempt to have my parking ticket I received last week turned into a warning. I had witnessed this work for the girl in front of me in line a week prior; it didn't, however, work for me.

I get to the clinic and wait only a few minutes, walk in and see the doctor; they make life so pleasant at the clinic that I was actually enjoying myself in spite of the invisible elephant sitting on my chest. I tell her my sole symptom: constant heartburn. She goes and gets me "the 10 commandments of heartburn."

I thought she was just being cute  and didn't realize that was actually written on the top of the paper until I had read halfway through the list and thought the sentences sure were written with a very strange choice of words.

"Thou shall trim the fat off meat … Thou shall avoid tomatoes, caffeine, chocolate, peppermint and alcoholic beverages … Thou shall not wear tight clothing, e.g. girdles."  

"I'm not supposed to wear a bra?" I exclaim.  

"No," she casually replies.  

Great.  

I suppose I'll pin two discreetly placed notes on my shirt everyday from here on out, moving them ever so slightly lower as the days progress: the left reading, "I'm not a hippie, I have a medical condition that doesn't allow me to wear a bra," the right, "I know, I couldn't believe it either."  

So, basically, I was given a prescription to become a cave woman. An angry, caffeine-deprived cave woman with bad breath (no peppermint) that hacks the fat off her kill, which turned out to be perfect when I went to get in my car 20 minutes later and saw a parking ticket on my windshield.

I've never wanted to be holding one of those primitive hand carved baseball bats more in my entire life. I'm parked in the health clinic student parking. Then I find out that they give sick people convenient parking spots, expect them to figure out what an "hc parking pass" is, somehow acquire one and then sprint, at their pinnacle of health, back to their cars.

All before the cloaked floating shadows (parking lot attendants) get there first.     

Actually maybe the parking lot attendants don't even exist. I'm beginning to think that the parking lot itself is pure evil and the parking tickets just seep out of the cracks in the unforgiving impervious pavement.  

I seethingly take the ticket off and say a three-worded prayer asking God to curse the parking ticket for all eternity, which in retrospect doesn't make much sense. In the moment it does seem to satisfy me.

I then consider throwing the fluorescent green parking ticket envelope on the ground but can't because, sadly, I don't have a vengeful bone in my body. Instead, I get in my car and look at the quarter inch of flamingo pink sludge in the bottom of my empty Pepto Bismol bottle.

I consider adding water to the neon goo, but instead open the box of Prilosec I just got from the pharmacy and swallow a pill, which will start working in about four weeks, the doctor said. Nothing like a quick fix.

I suppose thou shall have to be patient.