What made Milwaukee famous has made a loser out of me

We just had a really long rumination accidentally deleted on our parent's computer. It expounded on the way an ice cold Ketel One martini tastes when it hits the back of your throat and you already have an olive in your mouth, the way stringy ropes of blood look in a pool of your tea green vomitus, about how when the real vomiting starts you can physically feel your stomach squeeze itself out like a sponge; three, four, five and then six heaves later all that comes up is a few salmon-y pieces of tissue and what looks like a little pile of very blackened popcorn and tears pour down your nose and drool runs down your chin and a blood vessel inside your right nostril has burst from your efforts, pouring over your lower face and onto your shirt. You napkin it up as best you can and crawl to bed. You still have a few hours to go.

We were going to elaborate on the divine-seeming nursing abilities of household pets (namely Ellie). We were going to tell you about uncontrollable tremors, aural hallucinations, nightmares, the ceaseless anxious frenzy that makes your brain a hot griddle uselessly cooking itself. What real sleep feels like for the first time in, perhaps, three years. We were going to try to relate the utter absurdity of knowing you are going to vomit wihin the next ten minutes, and so attempting to form a strategy as how to best get out of bed and into the most effective position on the floor so that the wracking spasms of effort that shake you and between heaves cause you to literally and verbally beg for the mercy of a God you have never believed in, don't spill out of the small plastic bucket on your Mom's new carpet. About how mortified you are that your mother is on other side of the room, back to you, tears in her own eyes after seeing this for the seventh or eighth time tonight, standing ready to wipe the back of your neck with a cold wash cloth when you are finally done and lying on your side now, watiting for the alloted time you dread, thirty minutes from now, just like she did when you were in the fifth grade. Only now you are 31, and there are no excuses, no flu, no food poisining to fall back on to explain why once again you are Mommy's child. And the next few months, even as you lie here in sweaty doze, half out of conciousness, with a taste like a bag of old pennies at the back of your throat, lie huge and impossible like dark mountains before you.



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