"Stupid babies need the most attention"
It happens that there's an infant crying in the room across the way; his mother's tax appointment is duly postponed by the wailing. But that's not the baby I had in mind. I am.
I took a long time waking, this morning, sick to my stomach with liquor. My brain expanded and contracted, within my uncaring, unyielding skull. phramok and had to keep our 8:15 breakfast date, though, so I struggled into clothing. Midway, my stomach gave me a vigorous lesson in moderation. phramok was holed up in the bathroom, so my worship of the porcelein goddess was displaced into supplication at a stainless steel idol. That garbage can is a new purchase, part of our recent domestic splurge. It's lid is stainless steel, too, so between wretchings I would look up to see my haggard self, staring accusingly. Somewhat surreal...
After water, toothpaste, and mouthwash, we tromped into the still-falling snow. Seeing our bus ahead of us, just waiting to pull out, Jesse led me in a queasy forced march. The Gayest Bus Driver Ever greeted us moments after I got to the stop, looking over his sunglasses at my wan expression. phramok led me to a seat, where I fell into his embrace and gulped water too fast. GBDE made conversation about the weather and streetnames, and I held tight onto the bridge of my nose to avoid ruining his day. The ginger candy I'd used to settle my stomach had precisely the opposite effect and, moments after stepping off the bus, I wretched all upon the snowbanks. Happily, it was only water.
It was the wrong stop, so we marched on, through colored patches of snow where revellers the night before had followed my example, but with more substance. We met our friend for breakfast and, despite the smells of sausage and the unrelenting smalltalk about chocolate-and-brie desserts, I was not sick again! After an hour of sipping my jasmine tea and nibbling my fruit plate, my stomach settled. I had half a slice of a delicious "sausage bread" and vowed to return for real eating. Now, in a final act of wretching, I worship at my Deus In Machina, relieving myself of these queasy memories of stupid excess.
p.s. At the resturant, Hell's Kitchen, the waitstaff wears pajamas, at least on Saturday morning. This allowed us to all notice that our particular waiter was obviously gay, and obviously hung. I just had to share.
I took a long time waking, this morning, sick to my stomach with liquor. My brain expanded and contracted, within my uncaring, unyielding skull. phramok and had to keep our 8:15 breakfast date, though, so I struggled into clothing. Midway, my stomach gave me a vigorous lesson in moderation. phramok was holed up in the bathroom, so my worship of the porcelein goddess was displaced into supplication at a stainless steel idol. That garbage can is a new purchase, part of our recent domestic splurge. It's lid is stainless steel, too, so between wretchings I would look up to see my haggard self, staring accusingly. Somewhat surreal...
After water, toothpaste, and mouthwash, we tromped into the still-falling snow. Seeing our bus ahead of us, just waiting to pull out, Jesse led me in a queasy forced march. The Gayest Bus Driver Ever greeted us moments after I got to the stop, looking over his sunglasses at my wan expression. phramok led me to a seat, where I fell into his embrace and gulped water too fast. GBDE made conversation about the weather and streetnames, and I held tight onto the bridge of my nose to avoid ruining his day. The ginger candy I'd used to settle my stomach had precisely the opposite effect and, moments after stepping off the bus, I wretched all upon the snowbanks. Happily, it was only water.
It was the wrong stop, so we marched on, through colored patches of snow where revellers the night before had followed my example, but with more substance. We met our friend for breakfast and, despite the smells of sausage and the unrelenting smalltalk about chocolate-and-brie desserts, I was not sick again! After an hour of sipping my jasmine tea and nibbling my fruit plate, my stomach settled. I had half a slice of a delicious "sausage bread" and vowed to return for real eating. Now, in a final act of wretching, I worship at my Deus In Machina, relieving myself of these queasy memories of stupid excess.
p.s. At the resturant, Hell's Kitchen, the waitstaff wears pajamas, at least on Saturday morning. This allowed us to all notice that our particular waiter was obviously gay, and obviously hung. I just had to share.