Tuesday, July 05, 2005
The thing about your own vomit is that it can be both fun and informative.
Since it was self-produced, the disgust-factor inherent in vomit is somewhat blunted. For any narcissist worth his/her salt, the fact that it came from his/her own gender-confused body automatically makes it fascinating. If you're fortunate enough to make it to the commode, there's not much you can do with that slurry of hurl and toilet water but flush.
If you manage to blow chow across a flat surface, well, then you're in luck. You can write your name in it with your finger, pile it up and sculpt something nice out of it (assuming it has the right density and heft)... the possibilities are endless.
Besides the plain fun you can have with your own vomit, there's also the nostalgia factor. "Hey, I remember the shrimp scampi." Or sometimes a surprise, like "When did I eat raisins?" Mostly it's an opportunity to learn something about yourself, like how you should really try to chew your food better or maybe in the future avoid drinking things that are blue as they tend to stain the carpet should they escape digestion in that manner.
Other people's puke, now, that's a whole separate disgusting category. Just short of actually seeing their internal organs, there's nothing more revolting.*
I know it seems like I'm preoccupied with vomit, but it's really the other way around: vomit is preoccupied with me. There was my own a few days ago and now I've got gallons and gallons of kid-vomit sprayed across my floors and furniture. I've got two cans of carpet cleaner, both of which--wouldn't you know it--are completely empty, so the smell is non-negotiable. Water will only get you so far.
I'm sure there are more fascinating or generally relevant things I could blog about, but I'm a slave to circumstance. Vomit tends to grab your attention and doesn't easily let it go. In that respect it's very similar to genital warts.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 9.999
*=possible exception: Ann Coulter.