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» Vomit Pt2

Vomiting comes to me rather easily. I can throw up and then go merrily about my way, stomach empty and queasy feeling vanished. (My friends liken me to a cat in that way. Just: "Blargh!" and the world is better!) While I've had my fair share of vomits in public (after roller coasters, post consuming of funky-smelling leftovers, on the airplane shortly before take off, the first two times meeting my college adviser, any time my mother would scold me before sending me to school, for a week solid after contracting food poisoning from a Caesar Salad), nothing will ever top my two favorite ralphings that share a common thread.

Throughout 2008, I was plagued every-so-often with stabby stabby stomach pains, always at night. I attributed the pain to gas, then lactose intolerance, then maybe a stomach ulcer.

I put off seeing a doctor, as I live across the pond in The Best Country In The Whole Wide World And Don't You Forget It ('merica). My job does not provide health care. If you work a job that doesn't provide health care benefits, chances are you can't afford private insurance. (But that's Somebody Else's Problem, right?)

The stomach pains culminated into the mother-of-all ice-pick-through-the-gut can't-stand-up pains one night about a year ago. I banged on my flatmate's door, literally rolling on the floor (not laughing, but moaning) and begged for a ride to the ER. Couple of hours later, laying in a hospital bed with an IV in my arm as the vampires are off running various tests on my blood, I finally FINALLY was able to throw up. Sweet Jesus and Mary, it was the best feeling ever. I'm betting that a night with a very willing Hugh Laurie can't even feel that glorious.

The vomit was the typical slippery, off-colored mess but with... perfectly-preserved sliced mushrooms from the pizza I'd had for supper. I could have sworn that I chewed those up.

I was nice enough to scoop the vomit mushroom soup out of the hospital's sink and into a biohazard container before passing out on the bed. (In retrospect, I wish I'd let the bastards do clean up. The stabbing stomach pains remained misdiagnosed until I ended up in another hospital the day after Christmas a few weeks later. Organ failure is a bitch!)

Better that that incident, however, was a car trip with my man-child of a stepfather. I was but a small girl, and the-Scum-of-the-Earth, myself, and my mother had almost reached our destination of a three-hour journey. And it hits me. That tightening of the tongue, the bitter, sickening flooding of adrenaline in the mouth. Before I could even complain about the feeling or request an immediate rest break, I was transformed into a geyser. The windshield was my target.

So what was the culprit behind the ruin of what had been a perfectly fine car trip? Mushrooms. Sliced. From a meal that I'd had almost 24 hours before.

I still fucking love mushrooms.

Apologies for length, of course. Mine is only three inches*

*from the ground
(Fri 8th Jan 2010, 9:11, More)

» I'm your biggest Fan

Personal Jesus
Hey finally! I have a story to tell!

This happened in February. I'm still not over it.

You know Hot Wheels, yeah? Little toy cars, fun to BBQ and generally torture. I'm not sure if you realize that there's men out there who meticulously collect the little things, line up when cases are newly opened at the local Wal-Mart, and generally get over-zealous about a kid's plaything. They will pay seveal hundred for a single customized piece.

My boss founded a little company that strips the paint off existing Hot Wheels, has them retampoed and repainted in China, and sells them for around £18. We sell out every damn month. About half of the collectors out there have purchased from our little company at least once.

At one of the conventions in Las Vegas, crazy fanboys of the toys are queued up, wanting the signature of one of the main Mattel designers, Larry Wood. I'm mucking about, trying to get our booth set up while fighting this mass of massive people. There's some buzz among the nearest gaggle of men about the new Diecast Hall of Fame inductions going on later that night, and I'm generally not paying attention.

The mention of my boss's name *does* catch my ear within the sentence, "Well, it's a good thing Ray Parker* isn't going to be inducted anytime soon!" I snap my head up to see the white-haired cunt that uttered the defamation is staring right at me, issuing the challenge.

Now, my boss can drive me batty at times, but I'm insanely loyal to the man. He is definitely my hero and is the closest thing to a dad that I'll ever have.

With the feeling of hot electricity in my blood, words just tumble out of my mouth. I don't remember hardly any of my banshee screams, but I know it was something about how Ray is the industry's finest business man to ever be born and this old todger should feel honored to be in the same building as him. I may have overdone it; all the old men standing around probably got the impression that Ray is my personal Jesus or someother.

The mass of people are silenced, awed by my sharp-tongued berating that has put this old guy in his place! Bathed in the warm glow of anger and vengenance, I start to realize that the look on the people's faces is more akin to horror. The target of my rage is looking down on me like I've just been caught with my hand in my panties in the confessional booth.

And then the other details start to fall into place. The people aren't really queued up any longer, the autograph session has ended. And that old guy wasn't looking at me when he'd slandered my boss, he was looking over my shoulder. At my boss. Who is apparently a good buddy of this old guy.

I turn to see that my boss is giving me the same sort of disapproving look. "Trillion, have you met Larry Wood?"

Why he didn't fire me for overzealously defending his honor by cursing out the convention celebrity really is beyond me. But I still get paychecks every other week.

*name changed, though he's far from innocent. I know more about this man's sex life than I do about my own! But he's a really private chap who doesn't like his name out there too much.
(Sat 18th Apr 2009, 9:27, More)

» Vomit Pt2

Tastes so good you can eat it twice
Two best tasting things to throw up: Gatorade or Cake.

On a ski trip, the altitude got the best of me, and I sicked up a bottle of red Gatorade. The poor girls sharing the condo with me panicked and hunted for my mother, despite my reassurance (between heaves) that everything is fine.

Cake was the only thing that (I thought) I could keep down after I'd decided that I'd had enough of life on earth and downed about 75 pills.... (I was a stupid teenager. Funny enough, my life is worse now that I could have imagined back then... yet the Earth is still turning and I'm actually pretty well adjusted. Funny that.) Nothing besides that fucking cake would even make it into my mouth without triggering the gag reflex. Guess that's why it's called your cake-hole.

Not so great: scotch and ramen noodles. The only time ever that I drank until puking was scotch and chicken ramen. Even the harshest chemical cleaners I've tried have failed to kill the neon yellow stain :(

Apologies... penis envy was the real reason I decided to off myself.
(Fri 8th Jan 2010, 9:35, More)