I’m so disappointed in you. You went seven weeks without the dry heaves. You thought they were physical symptoms, but once the stressful period ended, they never manifested again. You then realized that the nausea you felt was all in your head. You didn’t know what was worse. Secretly you were praying that the source of the sickness was some sort of ulcer. Instead it appears that you’re so fucked in the head that your anxiety compels you to meet every morning with a chorus of retching. And I thought you were on the path to normalcy. But nope, you’re mentally ill, which is far uglier than an ulcer because there is no cure and people will not so secretly see you as a burden. Those disdainful eyes leering with a combination of pity and disgust. You know the look because it’s the same one you give to the homeless. You have become very aware of how people react to you and it makes you

Queasy. A motherfucker gets
Queasy. A motherfucker gets
Queasy. A motherfucker gets
Queasy. A motherfucker gets, a motherfucker gets,
A motherfucker gets, a motherfucker gets
Queasy.
Why do you react this way? Everyone else seems to cope just fine. Why are you so weak? Why were you built with brain that forces you to vomit under even the slightest pressure? You know your roommates can hear you every morning. At first they wer concerned for your well-being, but now they’re just irritated by the sound of your spewing guts. You can sense their ire. You apologize and the say ‘no problem’, but you can tell it’s half-hearted and coloured by the weariness that comes from living with you. Your body’s definitely trying to tell you that you’re not cut out to live in this world and the disease will strengthen its resolve and created an abdominal push so strong that you will become inside out. As the blood explodes from your oral cavity you have a profound sense of rightness and the bowels flying from your moth belie the gravity of your epiphany.