Originally published in On Our Selection News, August 4, 2016

Nothing grounds you more than wearing undies soaked in your own vomit.

Let me explain. On the weekend I went to a BYO sushi joint. Whether it was the full bottle of rosé I drank or large volumes of the half-cooked salmon I ingested at said restaurant it can’t be said, but the next day I felt a little worse for wear.

I had done all the right things – I kept up my fluids and showered under the most soothing temperatures. I thought this had put me in good stead to go out and enjoy the early afternoon sunshine. I had every intention going for a jog. But alas, it was not to be.

I was driving along in two lanes of traffic when salvia began pooling in my mouth. My stomach churned. I gripped the steering wheel tightly. I knew what was coming, and began to look for an opportunity to pull over. With a lane of traffic on one side and concrete divider on the other, I knew I would have to summon all the determination I possessed to keep the vomit at bay before I could safely pull up.

I thought I was self aware, I thought I knew who I was, I thought I had some level of self control. And for the first few minutes, I was right. My mouth had filled with vomit, but my strength of spirit and a forceful hand over my lips defeated it. I mustered up all the strength I had and forced it to retreat. But my victory was short lived.

They say you can do anything if you put your mind to it, but I doubt “they” were trying to swallow a mouthful of vomit for the second time while operating a motor vehicle. Because the second time the load of hostile liquid trekked up my oesophagus, there was little I could do to stop it.

It all happened so fast. About a litre of phlegmy, clear liquid sprayed all over the steering wheel, up the driver’s side window and into my lap. My dress was soaked, my underwear sodden with warm, gunky juice. It was like my water had broken. But this was not the miracle of life. This was more like the birth of a demon, an exorcism of bad decisions. I was drenched in failure.

I eventually pulled up, used water bottles to rinse out my hair, my clothes and flush off the glop on my steering wheel and driver’s seat and had a friend pick me up.

Some hours later after a visit to the chemist, I walked back to my car.

Unable to keep Eno down, I had resorted to licking the salt off hot chips and slowly I came back to life. As I walked the short distance to my car I hunched over, held my stomach and sucked the salty goodness out of each chip before putting it back. It was fantastic progress for me but I apparently looked so pathetic, a friend who drove past called me multiple times. “You just looked heaps sad,” he later told me. I don’t know how I didn’t hit oncoming traffic when the vom-canic eruption occurred, but it seemed I had hit rock bottom.

However, after all this, I at least felt better than one other person that day: the guy I walked past who was standing creepily in the bushes looking like a stalker, trying to catch Pokemon. Sure, I was wringing wet with my own vomit, but I’d never stoop that low!