It's the first of January, 2007. I am sick with one of those virus infections that last for about a day. I have violent vomiting and terrible diarrhea. On top of that, I have my period too. (I really did hit the jackpot that day.) So I am sat on the toilet in a half-conscious state with my pants around my ankles and feel like there is a horde of Tasmanian devils inside my tummy, struggling and pushing and groaning, desperate to find the exit. (Insert characteristic sound effects here.) My mother is watching me from the door, really worried and quite eager to help, but unable. Suddenly, just as I feel that I'm done, vomiting kicks in. Unable to do anything else, I turn around, pants still around my ankles, fall on my knees, embrace the porcelain goddess to which I have been paying homage for that day, and start spewing my guts out. Conversation:
Mom: "Do you want me to hold your head?"
Me: *Bluaaargh* No!
Mom: "Do you want me to wipe your ass?"
Me: *Bluaaaargh* "No! GO AWAY!"
Needless to say, I was trying to save the last remains of my dignity, unsuccessfully of course. For two or three days afterwards my tummy made funny noises. To quote my best friend J., "It's like the turkey that escaped the Christmas predicament hid in your tummy and is calling out loud to the other turkeys who might have escaped." Thanks, mate. I really needed to hear that.
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