happy belated father's day.

I pulled into the Grab-a-Java parking lot at five in the morning, just like every other morning, put the car in park and just sat. "I feel so hot," I thought. Sweat was pouring down my face as I entered the building. I couldn't even remember the code for the alarm. Before I knew it I was uncontrollably vomiting in the tiny little bathroom. My face was so far in the toilet that I could see everything that was living in there. Not pretty. I'm 25 years old and I'm about to call my dad to pick me up from work. . .

I spit out the last of the bile in my mouth and get in my dad's car. He decides to take me back to his house since he had the day off and I could use the constant monitoring. This was his first mistake. The events that unfolded after we made it home were completely beyond my control.

My dad's second mistake was telling me to go upstairs and sleep in his bed. We worked out a system. I had my phone by my bedside and instead of having a little bell to ring, whenever I needed something I would just call my dad, let it ring once and he would come to check my status. Status: puking every hour on the hour. Cause: food poisoning (Even though I swear I had the Black Plague. Can you get that from old Arby's mozzarella sticks? Yes, I went to Arby's. Yes, I ate the sticks after I let them sit for hours unrefrigerated. Judge not lest he be judged.)

In ten hours it was 10-0 and vomit was winning. Where is it all coming from? It was as though it took the bile in my stomach exactly one hour to reproduce and become the perfect amount for my gag reflexes to react. I couldn't even drink water without puking instantly. Puking water is the worse too. It mimics putting your thumb over the end of a waterspout that is on full blast except instead of the clean refreshing feel and taste of water it was the repulsive stickiness and taste of bile water. Back to bed.

Two hours had gone by and I hadn't puked yet. I must be in recovery mode; I'm going to call my dad. He comes up the stairs and I tell him that I no longer think I'm going to die but I feel this extreme pressure on my stomach. Maybe if I just fart it would relieve the pressure and I could sleep. Big mistake. With my dad still in the room, I squint my eyes, and then all of a sudden shit my pants. Did I push too hard?! My plan had totally backfired! I mean, I felt a little better but did I seriously just shit my pants, in my dad's bed, with him in the room, at age 25? Yes. And this is where unconditional love comes to play. Even though it smelled like something died, my dad just drew a bath and proceeded to carry me and my shit pants to the bathroom. I cleaned up and went back to bed until the next day. Every now and then I'll remind my dad that I shit his bed and wait for him to blush. These exact situations are what families are really for.