For the last fourteen years, I have been The Man With The Iron Stomach. Despite eating lots of things that have made guts churn, I haven't thrown up since 1991. Cool, eh? But my streak ended last night. And I mean ended. It began with a trip to Chili's. That name still tastes like stomach acid as I say it. The chicken tacos seemed fine going down, and I went to practice with The Child Who Was A Keyhole with no trouble right afterwards. Then I got up and went to the bathroom, and after several semi-dry heaves felt much better. There, I thought. No vomit. I am still the King Of Not Vomitting. But the relief lasted only one hour. I ran back in and my insides squirted into the sink over and over. This second episode repeated itself six more times in between 1:00 am and 6:00 am. Where does it all come from? How could there still be more? Are you kidding? There's no way my stomach holds that much!
And now I have decided the two worst things about vomitting.
(1) The indecision that precedes it, during which you wonder: Is it coming? Should I try and fight it? Then, before each heave you must repeat the feeling, wondering if you've finished your heaves for that session or only scratched the surface.
(2) How strikingly similar are the tates of vomit and cheap spaghetti sauce. C'mon people, to take the edge off the acid in spaghetti sauce all you need to do is add a little sugar.
I think its over now. It has been about six hous since my last episode. Which is good, because this was the violent kind of vomit wherein my sinuses were filled with the stuff. Sorry, I'll stop now.