Every credible drinker has an impressive story about vomiting. Here is mine.
It was spring break of sophomore year in college, and my friend Brent had access to a three-story house with an elevator on the beach in Wilmington, NC. After weeks of anticipation, a slew of eager underage college students piled into cars and went to the coast to ring in springtime. The house was amazing, equipped with a hot tub, and huge open rooms facing the Atlantic.
It was my last spring break as a teenager – I was turning 20 that summer—and it was important to go out with a bang.
The first night I tackled the business of getting wasted. Someone had ordered pizza, so I started responsibly, eating several slices to brace my stomach for what was to come. After I finished I surveyed the alcohol situation. I wanted a White Russian. Since there was no Kahlua in sight, I whipped up a mix of Starbucks mocha frappuccino, vodka, gin, half and half, and ice. I figured this resembled my drink of choice, and was proud of my collegiate problem solving skills. I dumped the concoction into a plastic cup and began drinking it like it was kool-aid. 
About half an hour later I was sitting a top a comforter in a well-lit bedroom giggling away with my friends. Suddenly I felt it. The unmistakable tummy rumbling—the realization that something’s going to shoot out of your body, you’re just not sure where. I excused myself and went to the bathroom and threw up. I recovered and rejoined my friends, thinking it was over. Little did I know, it was merely the beginning of the most prolific vomiting experience of my life.
An hour and one barf later, I wandered into the living room and tried to join the dance party. I figured I could handle it; who drinks barely one drink, pukes twice and then can’t rally and dance? I threw myself into some intense interpretive work, but something just wasn’t right. There was no time to make it to the bathroom so I walked outside, slowly at first, thinking I could trick my stomach into pulling it together, and that’s when the big one hit.
I was on the third floor of the house and miraculously there was only one person on the balcony. James John. I didn’t know James that well. He wore tight jeans and flannel shirts and usually addressed me with one-word sentences or the occasional grunt. I was pretty sure he thought I was a big dummy and this situation was not going to help.
I was holding a bottle of water and as I lurched to the edge of the balcony the vomit literally shot out of my face. It was like a cannon. I had no control and I just hoped that those on the balcony below weren’t leaning into my stream.
I held my hair back with one hand and the water bottle with the other and projectile vomited like my life depended on it. Then I realized JJ was next to me. He reached out and took the water bottle out of my hand, freeing it up so I could use my hand to brace myself against the edge of the balcony while I convulsed the vomit out of myself. When I finally finished I looked up and he was standing there patiently averting his eyes and holding the bottle. I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my shirt and he handed the bottle back to me. I went back inside. 
It was around midnight and I surveyed the dance party, the bar, and the kids in bathing suits writhing around in the hot tub and spilling out of the elevator. I could partake in none of it.
I threw up every hour on the hour for nine hours. Sinks, toilets, balconies, trash cans. I covered all the bases. The last two times were just bile and it was pretty evident that I had somehow poisoned myself. They happened at 5 and 6am while I was sitting on the couch watching Boogie Nights with the only other person still awake. To this day that movie makes me want to puke.
It was four years before the smell of Kahlua didn’t have a similar effect.
The next day I went on a walk with James John, and he told me I was the ultimate post-modern girl. I had no idea what it meant but figured given the events of the previous night, it was probably not a compliment.
