Sometimes an unexpected shit-facing happens and you are way past too drunk to lay down and sleep without the miserable circus music of your brain taking a swirly, jelly, clammy vibrating boat ride. But relief is just a throw up away. And it is sorta like masturbating, where you gotta procure the right image in your brain to successfully eject. Ham, in and of itself, works. It's so close to being human-y flavored and like licking a custardy dead baby.
But my best image medicine was always pancakes. Especially McDonald's Styrofoam plate-style johnnycakes. Ugh. Just the thought of flapjacks dripping with butter and syrup with that subtle vapor of pink foam can make for an automatic spew. But, just like with masturbating, if you use one image too many times it just goes invisibly numb.
Next up's cheese danish. Ew, a little oily pad of goo surrounded by glistening yeast for breakfast? It might not be the danish's fault. Perhaps it is the atmosphere: offered at 8 AM when you are standing in a mauve dentist office where the potpourri and wicker grows like a jungle...and the Styrofoam appears again, only this time bringing forth the decaf of some sort and the whiff of Drakkar Noir or Windsong.
This imaged worked for a while, but didn't have enough ejection impact. I moved on to the memory of when I found a really long hair that was flossed between my teeth but also had its opposite end wrapped around my uvula (aka that dangly thingy in the back of your throat). It happened during lunch in seventh grade. Its was a punishment hex sent down from God, because I was making fun of this girl Tina from the island for jawing down on chicken wings she brought to school for lunch. The hair was scary because if I tugged on the hair to remove from betwixt my incisors, it yanked on my uvula like it was gonna pull my thorax inside out! I had to just work on swallowing the weird wirey hair all day, which was mentally crippling. Gumming on myself, trying to get that weird hair down, trying to learn industrial arts and still maintain some semblance of not being a total spaz all day was a junior high school agony I will never forget. But this was helpful for future barf-outs.
These days things are gettin' modern and complex. Due to a sneak-up drunky moment the other night and all my go-to throw up thoughts exhausted, I saw the best, most helpful image to assist my hurl in appearing to me with no toil at all. It flashed inside me with it's much needed puke release: my MySpace page. Just the fucking image of my stupid, nerd, gross-ass, disgusting, pitiful MySpace profile made me successfully explode. That font, that design, the strangers, the friends, that blue, that white, the past set seeming forever like a smelly tomb of sad, lonesome years without friends or a lover. I can almost smell the staleness of an alone cum, Dominoes hot wings, more ham, wine, and sweatpants. If ham could be a light box with words and asses all over it, it would be MySpace. If MySpace could be a kind of ham it would be all hams.
Puking never got so into my psyche, its like the Pokemon seizure but with more responsibility. That noodley font is just illin'!!! I dont have the courage to mine out updates out of that muck. Try it when you're sauced and see what comes up.