And Now for Something Completely Disgusting

Here's a fun story that just screams "blog me!"

I was at Megan's for a good portion of yesterday. And by a good portion of I mean all of. If there's one thing that happens while I'm over there for an extended period of time, it's that I eat. I eat a lot. She cooks meals. She makes sandwiches. She gives me ice cream. Yesterday, we even baked brownies. That was a new one. But anyway, long story short, we eat a lot of food. We also gossip and watch TV. And paint each other's toenails. Maybe not that last one. At least not yet.

Anyway, I had a little bit of a headache early yesterday afternoon, but I didn't think too much of it. I've had a little bit of a headache every day for the past five days or so. No biggie. I get a lot of headaches. Usually they go away after I take a couple aspirin, or get some food in my stomach, or take a little nap. I took a couple of Advil when we got back from grocery shopping yesterday afternoon, and I felt a little bit better. That didn't last too long, though, so I took a nap on the couch. I woke up in time for dinner, and I felt a little bit better again, so I ate a good healthy portion of chicken, broccoli, and potatoes. Then it was back to the couch for some more TV, but the headache came back. With a vengeance. And this time nausea came with it.

I mentioned that I ate chicken, broccoli, and potatoes for dinner. I didn't mention that, over the rest of the day at her place, I ate the following: an egg salad sandwich, some Doritos, a couple brownies, and a bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream. There are probably even other things I am forgetting. Tack on a can of Diet Pepsi, a couple of juice boxes, and a cup of tea, and I was one full little boy.

The little headache had turned into a full-blown migraine by about 8:00 PM, and resting was not doing me much good. I realized I should probably go home and be miserable there by myself, instead of continuing to lay on the couch and be a bad houseguest, but I wasn't looking forward to the getting up and driving home part. So I laid on the couch until almost 9:00, when I finally conceded and decided to hit the road.

Now, here comes the good part.

I got into the car and started driving home. It is not a long drive from Meg's apartment to mine: three minutes, tops. I was only to the end of her street, though, when I realized I was going to puke. I was going to puke a lot. Now, I've puked a lot in my life. Probably more than all of you combined. The physical act of puking doesn't even bother me any more. Puke itself is gross, yes, but as long as it is in the toilet bowl or on the side of the road or something, I don't care about it. Since I've puked so much in my life, I've developed a pretty good sense of how long I have before I can't hold it in anymore. Normally, if I'm in the car and I have to puke, I'll pull over and just let fly in a ditch or something. I was in the middle of the city of Cortland, though, and I didn't think that would be appropriate. I decided that I could handle it until I got home like two minutes later.

No such luck.

Coming down Court Street, I gagged and some vomit escaped my esophagus into my mouth. I put my hand over my mouth, choked the puke back, and hoped that was the end of it. Was I ever wrong. Two seconds later, that little bit of puke made a comeback and brought a ton of its friends with it. BLAHHHH!!! Thankfully, I had kept my hand over my mouth and that blocked a lot of the grossness from getting too far. A lot did escape, though, all down the front of my jacket, inside my jacket and down my sweatshirt, and all over my pants. The steering wheel gleamed in the streetlights, vomit streams running down it. I looked over to the console and saw that some had deflected over there, infilitrating the shifter and the cupholders.

I kept my hand over the mouth for the remainder of the trip home and imagined the horror on the face of the driver next to me at the stoplight, if he had happened to look over and catch a glimpse of my vomit-soaked face and body. When I got home a couple minutes later, I immediately stripped my coat off and threw it on the ground outside my house. I ran inside, puked out anything that might have been remaining inside me, washed my hands and my face, and called Megan. I needed someone to come clean out my car. I obviously was in no condition.

She refused. Puke, apparently, is not her "thing." Thanks.

So it was up to me. I stripped out of my puke-covered clothing and took a quick shower. Needless to say, it was much needed. Putting on clean, vomit-free clothing, I searched in vain for appropriate cleaning supplies. At Carrie's suggestion, I used glass cleaner. I sprayed the steering wheel, the console, and the seat. Yes, much to my chagrin, I discovered a couple puddles of puke on the driver's seat. Spray spray spray, wipe wipe wipe, and the puke was gone.

I went out to the car this morning to get some books. The scent of vomit is faint, but it definitely is there. The windows are cracked open today, and hopefully the crisp April air will remove the odor. What an ordeal.

This is possibly the worst thing that has ever happened to me. And this from the guy who once got trampled by a bull. But that's another story for another day.