RALPH

You know what really makes me sick to my stomach? This isn't a rhetorical question; I'm gonna answer right now. And, oooh, bonus: there are MULTIPLE answers!

First, and most explicitely: VIRUSES. I am loathe to blog about That Which Exits My Cake-Hole Involuntarily, but not so loathe that I will refrain from doing it. And, I figure: if I'm going to write about what goes INTO my mouth, well, I might as well write about what comes OUT of it. Explosively. In chunks.

PUKE! I hate it! I hate it so much! But I had a big ol' bout of the pukes earlier this week because I caught the stomach virus that's been going around. Catching it confirmed, once again, that my belief that I WOULD have survived the Holocaust (through sheer determination and invented wiles) is patently wrong. And offensive. In fact, after my first Shout At The Toilet (which was actually a sour, wet, chunky Shout Into The Wastebasket beside my bed), I'm convinced that had I ended up in Dachau I would have died IMMEDIATELY. I can't take digestive sickness; it makes me want to Give Up.

I'm finally On The Mend after a 36-hour endurance trial of sleeping, sweating, and puking. I did feel bad for myself, but when I finally started to feel better I was kind of proud of myself for having Made It. On second thought, Maybe I WOULD HAVE survived!

Okay, the other thing that turns my stomach is my roommate's boyfriend. He lives two blocks away, ALONE, but HE IS ALWAYS OVER. And: HE NEVER STOPS TALKING. And: HE IS VERY LOUD. My roommate is lovely; I just don't love her taste in men. I wish I could say to her, Sweety, just 'cause something has muscles doesn't mean you should let it inside your life. Or apartment. Or vagina.

But I can't. So I won't.
Oh, my big mouth: some things hurt coming out; some things hurt to keep inside.