You sit there on the
floor in your undies, cuddling the only friend in the world you have left (the toilet), randomly continuing to make the
walrus noises, spitting, and farting. Help usually comes at this stage, even if it is short lived.
Tears stream down your
face and your abdomen hurts. Help now turns into abuse and he/she usually goes back to
bed leaving you there in the
dark.
With your stomach totally empty, your spontaneous eruptions have died back to 15-minute intervals, but your body won't relent.
You are convinced that you are starting to turn yourself inside out and swear that you saw your tonsils shoot out of your mouth on the last occasion.
It is now
dawn and you pass your disgusted partner getting up for the day as you try to climb into
bed. She/he abuses you again for trying to get into
bed with lumpy bits of dried vomit in your hair.
You reluctantly accept their advice and have a shower in exchange for them driving you to the hospital.
Work is simply not an option as the Stingy head of Artois had over taken your
brain.
The whole day is spent trying to avoid anything that might make you sick again, like moving.
You vow never to touch a drop again and who knows for the next two or three hours at least you might even succeed.