He has lollipop disease. It's not uncommon in a bear his size.
It's almost five in the morning, and I am seated on a dorm room floor next to a paper bag with blue vomit leaking through the bottom of it.
I spent last night drinking daiquiris and Blue Moon, hugging people for the hell of it, and arguing about authorial intent, nonaggression, and Constitutionalism in a friend's kitchen. Went to bed at midnight, woke up to my phone ringing.
"Bzuh. Dad. Time's it?"
"Four. Your brother's sick. Here, talk to your mother."
"Duckie, he's throwing up, and it could be food poisoning, and when I had food poisoning I just kept throwing up until I was so dehydrated I passed out, so could you bring him some water or a sports drink, but dilute the sports drink with water so it's not too intense for his stomach, or some flat Coke might work too if he can stand the sugar, which maybe he can't, but his roommate's not there so if he passes out - "
With a tequila-sour mouth and unbrushed hair, Duckie borrowed her friend's car and drove to the sketch-ass gas station to get a four a.m. Pepto Bismol and blue Gatorade. Arrived at the dorm to find Kenny laying on the cold floor making "unhhhhh" noises next to his very own brown paper bag of bile and stomach acid.
"A paper bag?"
"It's all I got."
"There's a plastic trash can right there."
"It's full."
"Would you maybe like to get off the floor?"
"Bed's too... squishy. Makes my stomach worse."
Hoo boy, we have reached the point where the fucking mattress pad makes him motion sick. An hour and a half later, the Pepto and Gatorade have accomplished little except turning the puke pink and then blue. The "unhhhh" noises continue in spite of hair-petting and back rubs and dainty Florence Nightingale servings of water.
Mom will be here in another twenty minutes to take her poor lamb back to Baton Rouge where he can yark in the privacy of his own bathroom.
Til then, time for more back rubs, damn it.
I spent last night drinking daiquiris and Blue Moon, hugging people for the hell of it, and arguing about authorial intent, nonaggression, and Constitutionalism in a friend's kitchen. Went to bed at midnight, woke up to my phone ringing.
"Bzuh. Dad. Time's it?"
"Four. Your brother's sick. Here, talk to your mother."
"Duckie, he's throwing up, and it could be food poisoning, and when I had food poisoning I just kept throwing up until I was so dehydrated I passed out, so could you bring him some water or a sports drink, but dilute the sports drink with water so it's not too intense for his stomach, or some flat Coke might work too if he can stand the sugar, which maybe he can't, but his roommate's not there so if he passes out - "
With a tequila-sour mouth and unbrushed hair, Duckie borrowed her friend's car and drove to the sketch-ass gas station to get a four a.m. Pepto Bismol and blue Gatorade. Arrived at the dorm to find Kenny laying on the cold floor making "unhhhhh" noises next to his very own brown paper bag of bile and stomach acid.
"A paper bag?"
"It's all I got."
"There's a plastic trash can right there."
"It's full."
"Would you maybe like to get off the floor?"
"Bed's too... squishy. Makes my stomach worse."
Hoo boy, we have reached the point where the fucking mattress pad makes him motion sick. An hour and a half later, the Pepto and Gatorade have accomplished little except turning the puke pink and then blue. The "unhhhh" noises continue in spite of hair-petting and back rubs and dainty Florence Nightingale servings of water.
Mom will be here in another twenty minutes to take her poor lamb back to Baton Rouge where he can yark in the privacy of his own bathroom.
Til then, time for more back rubs, damn it.