I hadn't been lifting for THAT long. The nausea was more a product of a
Dark Chocolate Carnation Breakfast Milkshake that apparently had yet to be digested. As such, it was still capable of protest. The
Meathead in me urged me to continue, shouting over an accumulating internal pool of bile. After all, the great thing about lifting for your own benefit (and not some team's) is that you take it just as seriously as you like. Gloriously spared any encouragements of a coach, I made for the bathroom.
And there I was, praying to the proverbial
porcelain god. To date, I have gone my entire life (yes, that includes
freshman year) without burning a drop of alcohol, and it had been a long time since I had hurled. Needless to say, I was a little nervous and a little excited.
Now I must fly in the face of the usual social norm of "sparing you the details." Said details are the reason I am writing this up. The puke, while meager in quantity, compelled me with its uncanny resemblance to collated dark chocolate material. Choose your favorite word; I'll pick "feces" for now.
I straightened up, away from the cold breath of the white basin. Wiping some cold and clammy sweat off my brow, I gave a dizzy smile. Like a kindergartner looking at his finger paint creation, I was proud of my work.
You see, I had left the next guy with a
difficult flushing decision. Confronted with a few seeming dung nuggets and zero TP to accompany,
I wouldn't know what to think. Looking in the mirror I saw that I was pallid enough to have seen a ghost, or perhaps even be one. Perhaps were true - and that ghoul had just successfully haunted a toilet bowl.
If you don't think bile is funny, you have no sense of humor. (Medieval medicine pun intended)