After years of vomiting, you’ve developed a sixth sense.  You feel it in the pit of your stomach.  A slight gurgle.  Rumble.  Whatever.  You’re not like some people who have no control, who throw up in their hands or all over the carpet because they don’t see it coming.

                So you excuse yourself, stroll to the bathroom and collapse on all fours in front of the toilet, yakking up god-knows-what and lemonade.

                The thing about lemonade, though, is that it tastes just as sweet on the way back up. Warm, but sweet- so you don’t mind it as much.

                But this is the millionth time.  You’ve been here before. 

During work- dress shirt and slacks, crawling to the porcelain god and hurling. 

Late at night- pink slippers and a ratty t-shirt from high school, made it to the garbage pale. 

In school, pre-trial, mid-fuck and on the side of a major highway- you’re the Magellan of vomit.  The Darwin of undigestion.  The Ponce De Leon of Puke.

                You’ve been there.

                Done that.

                Which means you’ve acquired certain tastes.

                Seat up vs. seat down- smaller opening as a result of the lid, but it sure as hell makes wayward pubic hair less visible.   

                All fours vs. two hands clenching the bowl- at home, acceptable to hug ones favorite fixture, while in public restrooms, the less you come in contact with the less likely you are to contract a venereal disease.