Allergies.

Note: It's February and life is...February-y. As such, the frequency of my posts has gone down fairly significantly. For this I am very sorry. I am however, still writing to you regularly, the difference is that I'm hand writing thing with the intention of posting them here, and then forgetting to transcribe my scrawling notes. This post is one of those things. It's from last Tuesday, and I'm sorry for the tardiness.



Winter allergies are in full swing here. In addition to all the desert things, I can now officially add one more item to the allergy list; feelings.

Remember this summer when I decided (in a brilliant scheme to protect myself from...life) to become a cyborg?
Me too.
That plan may have backfired.

You may or may not have noticed the increasing frequency at which I find myself hunched over, throwing up until my insides threaten to dislodge themselves. I know I have. I have also noticed the disturbing reliance on pepto and zofran that has been slowing gaining momentum over the course of the last six or so months.

Well, you'll be happy to know that I have finally solved the riddle.

My body is rejecting its own emotions.

I woke up rather begrudgingly this morning. (And by begrudgingly, I mean I allowed my alarm clock to go off every nine minutes for more than an hour.) I made myself late for work, as per the usual, stumbled to the coffee machine, and blithely navigated my way back to my desk.

I sat down, blank stare on my face, struggling to focus my eyes on the day.
At some point, I became aware of a growing feeling of unease in my gut.
Like butterflies.
Only more threatening.

I tried, for a moment, to find the source of the feeling, but almost immediately decided that was a bad plan.
Better just not to recognize these things.
If I stand really still and pretend it isn't there
It will go away.

Except that this is not Jurassic Park.
My feelings are not a T-Rex.
And if I hold really still and pretend it's not there, it's not going to just go away.
It's still going to be there.
Breathing down my neck.
Stewing in my guts.
Twisting my organs up with its very existence.

I took a sip of my coffee and promptly threw up.

Gross.

And unexpected!

I most certainly had not seen that one coming. (Obviously, as my desk was now slicked in my coffee; revisited). I mopped up the mess and mulled over the event in silence.

My mind wandered.
I caught it, several times, floating around somewhere in the clouds. In that place there the birds are always singing and the sun is always shining and all the things are lovely all of the days.
A smile crept its way across my face.
And then I threw up.
Damnit.

I feel fine. Distinctly not sick. No fever. No clammy skin. No chills.

I am most certainly not sick.

I became increasingly aware of the fact that I was feeling things. A great many things. And that my ability to maintain my cyborg status was slipping.
This was happiness.
A sickly-pickly kind of happiness
That had taken up residence in my gut,
Made itself at home,
And was lying in wait.
Waiting to transform me into the vomit monster.
To release screaming temporal doom from the depths of me.
And to rend me incapable of functioning at a reasonable level.

Unacceptable.
Incomprehensible!
Dastardly!
Other synonyms!
Gah!

I had worked so long and so hard at rejecting if not all, then at least the vast majority of my emotions, that I am now totally and completely unequipped to handle them. Or at least, the ones that I don't expect and prepare for.

The moment I realize I'm feeling anything at all, my body attempts to purge itself of the offending emotion through a sea of bile.
It's not so much that I can't handle any emotions, I suppose.
It's that I can't handle the ones that sneak up on me.
If I don't wake up expecting to feel 'happy' and then suddenly find myself feeling 'happy' my organs just say 'no thanks' a-la the vomit pathway.

It looks a lot like this:

Happiness --> vomit
Love --> vomit
Sorrow --> vomit
Sleep --> vomit
OMFG I LOVE THESE WAFFLES!!! --> vomit

You get the picture.

The thing is, you can't actually throw-up emotions. (But man, wouldn't be sweet if you could?!) They hang out inside you, permeating all that you are whether you try to puke them up or not. The end result is always that I end up throwing up an unreasonable amount, which in turn, makes me feel physically awful, and I still have to feel things.

This I believe is unfair.
I should either be forced to live a life in which I have to feel things
OR
To live a life where feeling things makes me throw up.
But not both.
Never both.
Definitely not.

Someone needs to create an allergy pill for this.
Drug companies, please get on this.


On that note, it's movie night with Lapochka tonight.
Will I throw up both before and after?
Most definitely.
Will it be worth it?
You bet your bungalow.

All my love,
Little Foot
(The Vomit Monster)