Back to School...

"Back to school. Back to school, to prove to Dad that I'm not a fool. I got my lunch packed up, my boots tied tight, I hope I don't get in a fight. Ohhhh, back to school. Back to school. Back to school. Well, here goes nothing." -Billy Madison

Well, here I am starting my first week as a SENIOR at the most impure grounds of Chico. A senior in college? WHAT? I remember starting my first day in Kindergarden with a blue bow conquering my whole head. I remember my 6th grade teacher, Mr. Carey, telling my class almost every week, "Cherish every moment you have because, before you can even blink, you'll be graduating 8th grade." I remember my first day of senior year in high school telling my best friends, "In four years we'll be seniors in college." WTF? I AM NOW A SENIOR IN COLLEGE! Mr. Carey was right, We should cherish every moment that we have. We're only young once. We can only act immature until acting mature is all you have. Actually, screw that, I will never grow up! So, here's to my last year being an adolescent. Here's to my last year living off my parents money. Here's to my last year with no regrets now, but the times that I will regret when I'm older  I still won't regret when I'm older. Shit, I'm in College! 

"You have 4 years to be completely irresponsible here. Relax. Work is for people with jobs. You'll never remember class time, but you'll remember time you wasted hanging out with your friends. So, stay out late. Go out on a Tuesday with your friends when you have a paper due Wednesday. Spend money you don't have. Drink 'till sunrise. The work never ends, but college does."

...I will follow this quote like I follow the Holy Bible.

CHEER BITCHES

Another Day, Another Black Eye

Ughhhhh, I don't know why, but this summer is haunting me with death. Well, maybe not death. I think I'm just being a little too melodramatic or just being my Prima Donna self, but something happened to me again. Go figure.
About a week ago, my right eye had been bothering me and I felt a bump enrooting on my eyelid. My sister-in-law, Emily, had felt it and told me that it's probably just a stye. Ew, I thought. A pimple on my eye? Gross.
Stevie, of course, loves to make fun of things that, he thinks, is hilarious.
Stevie's Rhyme Scheme:
Ali has a stye on her eye.
She wants to sigh and cry.
That bump is no lie
maybe it's a poop from a fly?
Hopefully she won't die.

My family thinks they're really funny. Not.

Anyways, for the next couple of day the pain was progressing. I woke up one morning on Thursday and saw that my whole entire eye was swollen shut. What the hell? I wake up my mom, Prima Donna style, and show her. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? IT'S LIKE I HAVE ELEPHANTITIS ON MY EYE." Of course my mother thought it was funny, I did not.
I called my primary doctor right away to make an appointment. Mind you her name is Dr. Seaman. God, I am way too immature to call a girl, Seaman.
So, I get in right away and she looks at my eye and says, "Well, I think you might have Cellulitis." If you're wondering what that looks like, then please do not Google it. My eye looks nothing like that. Supposedly it's an infection where a potential insect or spider bites you. I HATE SPIDERS! She puts me on antibiotics and sends me home. Worrying about my appearance, I refused to go anywhere that day. All I did was put a hot compress on my eye to decrease the swell and watch, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (Yes Chess, I am now watching it. It's so good!) Watching this show made me feel a little better because my eye did not look as huge as the obnoxious lip injections these "Real Housewives" have.

Continuing on...

I grew some cahones and decided to drink that night. Not a good idea.

The next day, I wake up to, not only a hang over, but a swollen black and blue eye. I looked like Rocky Balboa after a harrowing fight against Muhammad Ali. Yes, I know they have never fought before being that Rocky is a fictional character, but still, imagine Muhammad's handiwork on another guy. Rough.
Again, I call Dr. Seaman in panic because not only do I think I'm dying, but I'm also going to Carmel today. Of course, the nurse says she has no availability for the rest of the day and is too busy to talk on the phone, but, that she can obviously take a message. This nurse did not understand that I was on the verge of my breaking point. Well, not really but still. I was not about to go to Carmel looking like a trailer trash woman who likes to fight at some cheap raunchy bar. So, my mother told me it would be best if I didn't go to Carmel for the weekend assuming it could be contagious or will get worse over there. Ya, not going to happen. I start packing, and then collapse because I felt so nauseous. Yes, I had been throwing up all morning with a swollen bruised eye. I was not winning today.
Finally, my Doctor calls and tells me to come in right away. I got dressed, still hung over, and bounced. She looked at it and said, "I have no idea what's wrong. Let me talk to an Ophthalmologist and ask him what could be the problem." He had no idea either. Dr. Seaman then started asking me questions that seemed relevant to how I've been feeling lately: abdominal pains, arthritis in hands, and spontaneous bruising. She checks my blood pressure and see's that it's hypertensive, 145/92. Then says that it could be a huge possibility that I might have a blood problem. Dr. Seaman send me downstairs to get blood tested. Side note, don't EVER get your blood taken when you are hung over. As she's drawing blood out of my poor little vein, I start to gag, loudly. The nurse asked if I was okay and I just said, "yeah, I just really hate needles." Wrong, I was just really hung over.
I end up going to Carmel with my bad ass eye. A few hours later, I received a call from Seaman telling me that all my blood levels are elevated and my INR is really high, which means it's hard for my blood to clot. My blood is really thin, but they still have no idea why my eye looks the way it does. It's a mystery to all of us.

Guess this is something that Nancy Drew will have to figure out for herself.

The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Every day this summer, I have gone to this particular Starbucks before going to work and a man in his 60's is always outside on the corner reading a newspaper by himself. He looks homeless seeing that he has a huge backpack filled with blankets and is pretty disheveled. He has long white hair always up in a pony tail, amber dirty skin, and raggedy clothes draping over his body. Recently, him and I have been developing a more powerful greet every time we make eye contact. It started off first with a smile, then a head nod, and then the smirk with a wave, and finally today we had a "Hi, how are you?"
I have always wanted to buy this man a pastry or a crossiant from Starbucks, but I never had the courage to do so. So being that it was my last day going to Starbucks for the summer, I finally got the audacity to buy the man something. I ordered him a butter crossiant. Nervous as I always am, I walked out of the Coffee shop and handed him the crossiant with a smile on my face and said, "Have a good day!" He looked at me and laughed. Then proceeded to say, "I'm not poor." 
Well, what do you know? The man is not poor and I completely made a jack ass out of myself. There goes my fearless attempt to show a nice gesture for someone, I thought, was less fortunate than I am.
Maybe this man is the guy that The Script sings about in the song, "The Man Who Can't Be Moved."

Guess you really shouldn't judge a book by it's cover.

The Script-The Man Who Can't Be Moved