Key Issues

Warning: This is Gross

10-12-05
Dinner at a Mexican restaurant: An enchilada a la carte for me, of which I ate half. (Thanks to my slothful thyroid, I must eat light these days, lest I balloon.) And Shrek ordered a huge combo platter, nachos, cheese, and then ended up finishing up Priss's quesadilla. (We did abstain from margaritas though.)

Close to Midnight: Shrek retires to the bedroom with a glass of fruit juice, and I, of course, bum a sip.

10-13-05
3 am: I am awakened, even out of my Tylenol PM induced REM-coma, by sounds of violent retching. Violent. Hu-eggggh...splash. Hu-egggggh...splash. This happened, oh, about a dozen times.

3:05 am: I try to muster compassion as I envision the queso-gastric smoothie splattering the lid of the porcelain throne. I did. I tried. But all that came out when he re-entered the room was, "FUCK! I can't believe I drank after you...Dammmmmit!"

Oh, I was nice about it. Eventually. In fact, right after I exclaimed, "Eeew, it stinks. Did you flush?," I asked, "Are you better now? Can I get you anything?"

See. I came around. I must admit, though, wee hours of morn are not the best hours for consciousness in my book. They seem to be, however, the preferred hours for projectile vomiting, no?

Why is that? And why did I have to drink after him? Dammit.