June, July and August said

Never knew I could have such a deep connection with regurgitated oyster. Then again, it did not come to me, until the wee hours of last night, that my vomit could pour in such a dignified manner. This was a bucket of throw up that made you sit up in respect (or double over in disgust, whatever). It's consistency, the sheer viscosity in which it carried itself. That shaking of the Earth heralding its arrival. The clenching of abdominal muscles that never knew such clenching before (I don't work out, haha). And that sudden breaking of floodgates and the unencumbered whoosh! and whooooorgh! of slime and shredded oyster and bile. And, Christ, the smell.

I ran from Chickenboy, from Joel, Karl de Mesa, Mia and Joey to barf in the fall-out shelter-ness of Pancho's pad -- since it was waaay past curfew at the dorm by then. (At least it wasn't in his car.)

Thank you to Pancho's bucket. Oh, and Pancho too, my nursemaid. Har!

"Mali ba," Pancho asked me whilst my head was stuck in the bucket, "kung gusto ko pa ring balikan yung mga oyster sa Chickenboy?"

Hm. Quite possibly. Especially if bits of it are dangling off my spittle-stringed chin.

THE SIMPSONS MOVIE TOMORROW! D'OH!