I stood, head hanging over my toilet in that familiar, insufferable anticipation. The time had passed for silent prayer in the hopes that if I lie still long enough, I could fall asleep, and that horrid disturbance would ebb in to the depths of my exhaustion. I stood to speed up the grueling process demolishing my stomach. I have a friend who once vomited silently into a plastic bag in a crowded mall. Not one passer by even gave her a second glance. I am not like her. The first time I got drunk, I spent half the night heaving and gagging at measurable volumes while a friend nursed me behind two closed doors. The rest of the party yelled at her to shut the already closed doors because my tumult was prohibiting them from passing out. This time, however, I was not drunk, which made my predicament that much more arduous.
I had brought back the worst of all souvenirs, the Mexican Devil Bug, infamous among tourists everywhere. Mere hours after returning, I felt far from inspired. The natural, blue hot springs, the radiant spectrum created by the Tarahumara’s clothing, endless arrays of rock formations, Spanish-speaking French girls, valleys of frogs and mushrooms, extended bike rides, dilapidated churches and graveyards, and even the sexy band members were all unanalyzed, far-flung instances preserved on one gigabyte, waiting for my attention as I stood convulsing and sweating in my dimly lit apartment, quarrelling with the entire country of Mexico as it spewed from my delicate insides.
Tot: 0.358s; Tpl: 0.009s; cc: 12; qc: 50; dbt: 0.0333s; 50; m:apollo w:www (22.214.171.124); sld: 2;
; mem: 6.4mb