Old year, new year in The Devil Beneath My Feet

Out with the old and in with the new, in the most violent and disgusting way possible.

Apparently my body has just become so accustomed to puking on New Years that it’s decided to make it a tradition regardless of whether or not I’ve had any alcohol. On December 31st i had dinner with a friend at a restaurant that we frequent, where i had what i normally get there; french onion soup and a salad. This, therefore, rules out any suspicion of eating anything bad though i did experience mild tummy troubles before i went to bed. Approximately 30 minutes into the year 2016, i woke up with severe stomach pains. I mean, bad. Like, if i don’t wake up and get to the bathroom i might shit myself, levels of bad. Naturally i whipped the covers off and got out of bed, which turned out to be a terrible idea because the moment i stood up the entire room dove into a spin. My hands felt cold and clammy, my knees felt weak, and i hiccuped. I had just enough time to say “Oh shit” and clamp one palm over my mouth before the geyser erupted in it’s infernal glory.

Did i mention the salad i ordered was a spinach salad? You know how when spinach wilts it gets all sad and droopy looking? Yeah? Did i also mention i just got a new nose piercing, a nostril piercing to be exact?

Have you ever had to pry recently-vomited, wilted spinach off the inside coil of a new nose ring? No? Well let me tell you it is not even a little bit as fun as it sounds.

Clamping a palm over my mouth, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. Probably the worst thing i could have done, actually. Rather than project forth from my mouth in one long, terrible shot it now had the effect of pressing your thumb over a hose nozzle. Half-digested spinach, onions, tomatoes, and mozzarella cheese mixed with bile covered the floor, and now i had to clean it. Eric, bless him, offered to help but a mixture of embarrassment and the knowledge that the moment he tried to start cleaning he, himself, would heave from the smell alone, i asked him to just get me a glass of water and a mop.

Once cleaned i febreez’d the hell out of the room, opened a couple windows for about 10 minutes (it’s freezing here) and opted to sleep on the couch to be closer to the bathroom, just in case. This proved to be a good idea because about 2 hours later, i woke up again and this time made HASTE to the bathroom, where for the first time in my life i got to experience the pleasure of pure, murderous hatred spewing out of both ends of my body simultaneously. Have you ever done that? Shat like a fire hose and projectile vomited into a trashcan all at once? I can’t say i’d recommend it. Turns out that’s not as fun as it sounds, either.

The entire next day i slept, and slept hard. I woke up periodically to use the bathroom/get a drink of water and try to hydrate myself, and every time i woke up my dearest Darby was sleeping next to me. Or, on me, more accurately. Sweetest damn dog in the entire universe. Speaking of whom, tomorrow is his birthday! Two whole years old!