Having not barfed in years beyond recent memory, a shivering mass of partially digested crab and nuts came as quite a surprise in the midst of sleep last night. Never associating vomiting with relief or pleasure seems a staple in my life, despite insistence by friends that at least nausea subsides in the wake of the warm acid wave. Contrary to this notion I find, with freshly minted experience, that indeed the aftertaste leaves something to be desired. At least squeamishness is not in my genetic make-up, and messy bath-towel clean ups in the darkness are enough to hold me over until morning when a more thorough job can be done.
Unpleasant.
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