Sorry I Fouled Your Door
The fateful night we chose to make sweet love for the first time was a spontaneous night, otherwise we probably woudn't have celebrated the impending consummation at BK. Even so, we were excited. So in love. I played with your package under the table. We ran home, panties were ripped, life was good.
Little did I know, Satan had plans for me that night. Not content to let me enjoy our hedonistic debauchery, he stood over the bed, pitchfork in one hand, a heinous strand of stomach flu in the other hand. A strand of flu that did not mix well with BK chicken sandwiches.
You fell asleep right away, I dozed until I was compelled to run to the bathroom. I prayed that you would stay asleep through the terrible scene that ensued. Several courtesy flushes later, I could only hope that you were not awake, since the bathroom is connected to your bedroom.
As I sat on the toilet, I hoped that I wouldn't throw up. For some reason I can handle poo but I have a morbid fear of vomit. I sat with my ass on fire when I got the dreaded "feeling". The "cold, then hot, sweating, mouth watering, I'm going to puke right this second and possibly pass out" feeling.
With my pants still around my ankles, I stood up to puke, but the puke didn't wait until I was fully turned around and positioned over the toilet. It flew out of my mouth, Exorcist-style all over the glass shower door right next to the toilet. And behind the toilet. And all over the toilet itself - although very little actually went into the bowl.
After 30 seconds of puking, I stood, shaking and breathless, realizing I hadn't pulled my hair back when I puked. My hair was full of chicken sandwich. Obviously I'm not an expert at vomiting.
Now here's where retrospect comes into the picture again. In retrospect, having decided to go to the sink to wash the puke off of my face and out of my hair, I should have done the following two things:
1. Pulled up my pants before walking to the sink
2. Shut the bathroom door
Being sick and apparently out of my right mind, I did neither. I waddled over to the sink with my pants around my ankles, and started splashing water on my face. That's when Satan struck his final blow and I began to uncontrollably vomit into the sink, which would have been okay if I hadn't simultaneously lost all bowel control and sent projectile diarrhea all over your bathroom door behind me and the rug beneath me.
Was it entirely necessary for you to wake up at precisely that moment and come in to check on me? From the look on your face, the image that greeted you was far from pleasant: a deranged woman with puke in her hair, pants around her ankles, shit on the door behind her and on the rug under her, vomit sprayed on the shower door and behind the toilet, vomit in the sink.
Your look expressed many things: shock, disgust, confusion....how had the hot, sexy woman you had just had sex with deteriorated while you slept? I wanted to tell you that it was all a dream, a bad, bad dream that you would wake from and never remember, but I couldn't. I was too busy trying to pull up my pants while slamming the door in your face.
My rants: Burger King chicken sandwiches, Satan, the flu, and fucking retrospect.