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The very familiar sensations start creeping over me. "Fuck," I mutter as I start pouring clammy sweat, "I don't want to... I don't want to." I mumble as I carefully walk into the bedroom, to my nightstand. My stomach starts hurting, my gag reflex is making itself known. "Goddamn it goddamn it not again goddamn it." I fumble through the drawer until I find the blister pack, my fingertips skidding, sweatcovered, as I try to pick the silver backing off. After ten or so long seconds, It peels off. I grab the tiny white tablet and pop it under my tongue. The nausea is increasing, now it's a race. I lean on the bed, paying careful attention to my digestive tract. The tablet has barely begun to dissolve when my mouth floods with saliva. Balls, I think as I turn to the right, placing one hand on the nightstand and the other on the mattress. _ Please no, come on, please no..._ Too late. I'm hoarking my lunch up into the small trash can between the nightstand and our bed. One mouthful. Two. Three. A pause. I spit, and the white tablet, partially dissolved, flies out and lands on top of the vomit. I'm gasping for air, sharp pains are roiling through my stomach. My bowels burn from the pressure. Come on, I think, _I know I'm not done. Come on, get it over with, please. _ Gavin moves. Sharp little flutters, an arm or a leg flailing. He's getting tossed around by my abdominal muscles, and his entire world is filled with the sound of me ralphing. Poor kid. I rub my stomach. "It's okay, kiddo. Mommy's okay. We're okay. Here-" and then, thankfully, I'm vomiting again. My kitten has wandered in, and she's rubbing up against me, She always keeps me company when I'm sick, although it may just be in the hope that I'll leave what still smells like people food unattended, eventually. Gavin's kicking me, sharp and quick. He's nailing my bladder over and over as I'm struggling to breathe through what has to be the chunkiest vomit of the pregnancy. I gasp and swallow instinctively, sending the vomit right back down so my body can send it right back up. Katya is lying next to me, watching me. Suddenly, Brandon's there, kneeling next to me, rubbing my back. "Ohh, J___" he says" it'll be okay. I continue to vomit, he continues rubbing my back, Gavin continues to do the WTF Rumba in my womb. Finally it stops, the sweat stops, and I feel a little better. "Towel," I manage, and Brandon's off, hurriedly ransacking one bathroom and then the other, until he find a clean towel. My face is covered in sweat, snot, tears, and spit. I sit back as I wipe at the goo, my feet and ankles cramping from the unaccustomed emergency squatting. Katya jumps up, lets out a "MAO," and begind rubbing against my leg. Brandon sits next to me on the floor, and asks me a question about last night's social event to distact me. I answer him, pausing several times to dry heave and let stomach pains pass. As tired as I am of vomiting, at least it's because I'm pregnant, and not because I took too much, or I'm hung over. The person who comes to comfort me is tied to my discomfort in a way unreplicated by any other situation. And there's a furry kitten who appears to want to comfort me. Even though I'm ralphing several times a month, things are pretty good.
In fact, I become a much less fun person when i'm drunk. I'm luckily at least not a sad or angry drunk. I'm just me, only more cautious and less likely to do wild things because the alcohol makes me more tired more quickly. Only the extremely well trained eye who knows me well can tell when i'm drunk in all but the rarest of circumstances.
In the end it's kinda handy, because i'm very capable of cleaning up after myself and others, and also when I was underage could always very easily fool authorities into believing that I hadn't drunk a thing.
There's an interesting feeling attatched to the word vomit. It's curious in a way, to me, because the image of the runny, chunky liquid coming out of your mouth after passing through your esophagus is intriguing. The valve that keeps your stomach from throwing all of your food up decides to allow you to do just that. Then, you're bent over the toilet vomiting up all of the alcohol you've consumed, whatever wonderful food or ... not so wonderful food you may have recently been attempting to digest, or maybe that bass pic that found its way into your mouth. Then you're left with this smelly, liquidy pile of bacteria and stomach acid and whatever else all in the porcelain express. Then you're left holding this rather disgusting waste disposal as if it were a comforting thing. You find yourself saying "I'll never do this again" though you know full well that you will. There is a strange part of your brain that may actually enjoy this torture you're putting yourself through. Then, you remember that you vomited just a moment earlier in the living room and you'll have to clean that up later. Vomit is always going to be linked to cleaning in my brain because I always end up having to do something with regards to the cleaning up process of vomit, even if it's just telling someone else to take care of it.
She kept drinking and getting more and more reckless that night. I knew that a line had been crossed when she sat in front of me on the floor, with me sitting behind her on the couch, and she tipped her head back to release a vomit volcano all over the room, including me. I helped her finish puking, put her to bed, cleaned up her apartment, and left to try to get a few hours of sleep before finals. A half-hour later, the police called me, asking for my help in getting her to calm down. I guess right after I left, she flipped the hell out and started screaming and throwing things around her apartment. Her neighbors thought I was still in there and beating her up, and called the cops. I suppose she told them my name, and they looked me up. I was... displeased. But I got to know her neighbors, who were understandably freaked out and approached me to figure out what the hell was going on.