Cathartic, sloppy, and often unexpected, yes, puke is one of life’s fun surprises. We all know drinking can lead one down a journey to Barf City, U.S.A.; we’ve all heard the stories, witnessed the stains, and combed out caked-in hair. With alcohol-inspired vomit, though, there’s generally a followed protocol. Said routine lasts anywhere from twenty seconds to three or more unsettling hours and it’s a true metamorphose from the initial twinge to the eruption of post-consumer beers and tacos surging into a nearby bar toilet, dumpster, or roommate’s laundry hamper.
Often, it starts with a loudmouthed perennial-disappointment named something like Party Boy Richard. He peer pressures you into downing a shot that doesn’t agree with you and it hits your stomach with a Houdini-esque blow. Alerted (1), you feel your inner storm start brewing. Swirling and whirling, it’s the uncomfortable queasy feeling, similar to the one felt while experiencing cinematic erotica with your parents. This night of drinking will not have a sturdy foundation; this is the architectural equivalent to a house being erected on a fault-line dune or hillside in Oso, Washington.
Blissfully, you treat this ominous harbinger as you do any tornado watch or Amber Alert—ignoring it and figuring it’ll work itself out. You quicken your consumption at this point, confident that in denial (2) you’ll be able to effectively drown any sickness with more liquor, drugs, or some sort of Pepto-booze-mal antacid cocktail.
Your “drink first ask questions later” suppression tactic has you feeling comfortably numb. Confident, you presume nausea stands no chance against the formidable one-two punch of more alcohol and refusing to listen to your body. There’s no sympathy for other’s physical anguish—they’re just not drinking fast or furious enough. Unfortunately, though, this is only a mere false victory (3).
Symptoms return. Binging hard with the gusto of an aspiring alcoholic has only exacerbated your situation. You’re rapidly descending into disaster (4). Sweat begins to bead. Involuntary tears seep from your ducts. There’s no sympathy to be found; no one feels for the one scorned by his or her own hubris. Plus, there’s not enough saltines and water in the world to pacify the looming, rug-ruining mess churning within your stomach’s confines. Every muscle tenses when you try your old, boozy tactics, but your body refuses to be fooled again.
The tipping point has passed; it’s become a foregone conclusion. Acceptance (5) resonates through you. You’ve tried everything and now you just want to be comfortable. There’s no more sweat or tears, only tranquility as you embrace your barf-y reality. Throwing in the towel carries no shame when it’s done honorably and on your own terms and, so, with all the bathrooms occupied, you start scouring the room for a fat girl’s unattended purse to gracefully and discretely vomit into.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible.com most weeks. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
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