I sat down to breakfast, a bowl of my favorite granola with rice milk. Except that the rice milk ran out after about a tablespoon. Damn.
There was a half-gallon of milk, I mean milk milk, the stuff that comes out of cows, in the refrigerator. “One more dose won’t kill me,” I thought. I haven’t had real milk in a few months but I figured I could afford one relapse.
So I poured it on and slurped up a big spoonful. “Man, that tastes funny!” I thought. I marveled at how quickly my tastes had shifted, to the point where milk didn’t taste quite right any more.
After the second spoon, the feeling intensified. The milk didn’t taste “funny;” it tasted bad. A small bundle of nerves began firing somewhere in the back of my brain… better check the milk. I opened the carton, took a whiff, and my eyes opened wide. The milk had turned. Phew, that don’t smell too good.
My kitchen sink has no garbage disposal, so I had to find something else to do with my bowl of rancid-milk granola. I didn’t trust the trash can not to leak. I guess I could have tossed the mush out into the back yard, maybe sprout a granola tree? But I opted for the toilet. I’m pretty sure my septic system can digest anything; when we moved in we learned it had even eaten through some of its own plumbing.
Now I know, there’s nothing that granola in a toilet bowl resembles so much as vomit. Should you ever need to simulate vomit in your own bathroom, I suggest granola and milk. In a curious twist, the visual image caused a powerful wave of nausea. Even though I knew I was looking at granola, my brain processed it as “vomit,” and vomit I nearly did. This capped a morning of revolting sensations, which I relive here for your benefit.
So, aren’t you glad you stopped by debris.com today? Let me know if you’d enjoy a weekly feature on vomit, or perhaps a daily essay on one or another aspect of my digestive process.