“Nothing says ‘love’ like seeing your husband poop in the bathtub while you’re puking your brains out in the toilet.”
My college roommates and I tried a new Mexican place for dinner. The food poisoning hit me first a few hours later. It felt like a thousand angry little demons were stabbing my insides with white-hot daggers. I ran to the bathroom and the gates of hell blasted open. I was sweating, crying, and shitting more than I ever thought possible. Then, I heard a bang as my roommate tore open the door and proceeded to vomit partially-digested tacos all over my half-naked body, which was expelling the contents of satan's soul into the toilet.
The night before I was due to start my new job as an English teacher, I went out for a celebratory meal with my boyfriend and our friends. I had oysters. Everything was fine until I arrived at school the next morning, when I started to feel queasy, but I chocked it up to nerves. I welcomed my new class into the classroom and taught for about 20 minutes, but then I couldn't open my mouth for fear of vomiting. The kids started talking and laughing, until I projectile-vomited across the room, spraying quite a few of my new students in the front row. It's fair to say I was never their favorite teacher.