I actually have pins and needles within the bottoms of my feet. I can’t recall how long I have been kneeling here. The strings at the end of my blue jeans feel the need to irritate my feet; knowing it aggravates me and I do not have the strength to adjust my position. To tell you the truth, with my knees bruised from this hard tile floor and my red flannel shirt covered in vomit, I don’t think I could be more comfortable at this moment. I keep rocking back and forth over this ceramic bowl and its pure color is imbedded into my mind. I keep repeating out loud, “White, white, white.” I do this to remain calm, to focus; to stay in control of my upset stomach.
I can’t say that this party sucks. Despite the fact that I’m hanging my head over a toilet bowl, I am glad that I decide to linger on the wild side. What sucks is this toilet bowl, because who wants to spend any time over a shitty white toilet filled with streak marks and my reflection in the water.
The thunderous sounds of the party explode through the thin wooden door; the handle hanging on one screw and vibrating from the bass of the deafening music playing in the living room. I don’t understand why it must be played so loud and why everyone must be yelling at full volume… I am hearing twelve million different voices calling my name through the door- afraid to enter, just in case my pants are to my ankles and I’m taking a crap or masturbating. How do they know I’m feeling sick? They’re probably as drunk as I am. I hear “Marc, Marc; Marc!” oh, shut the fuck up! My head is spinning in six different directions and I cannot tell if I’m feeling any better with my irritated toes and my bruised knees hanging over this toilet! I have to admit, I am sick of hearing my name so many times. I don’t even understand why my parents named me Marc. What an annoying name, and it sounds even worse when I’m drunk.
I think my stomach is recovering from the alcohol because I am no longer experiencing some type of vice-gripping pain. I want to puke a little bit more, just in case I am wrong.
“Come On, Man. Are you gonna join the party, or be a loner all damn night, Marc?”
Who is that? I cannot even make out the voice. It sounds like I’m in a sewer pipe. I still need to keep my eyes closed because I am still spinning. I am definitely not well yet…
“Marc, I’m drinking your Jack and coke, you fucker!”
I can’t believe this; I am going to kick that kid’s ass… My stomach might feel like that handle on this bathroom door, but I will kill that kid! The music kept playing, my head kept spinning, and my name reserved its place in the door. I just might hurl again and I suppose I will feel better after that. But I cannot throw this feeling up… I mean I’m not going to stick my fingers to the back of my throat and pull my uvula in order to throw up! I am physically alone. The soul that’s trying to escape me leaves me grooving in sorrow and I cannot gather my thoughts to find strength.
I can decipher my pale face in the bottom of the bowl and every time I spit into the water, the picture of my face separates. I must be concentrating so hard on my face that I forgot that I was still rocking back and forth. I couldn’t even hear the voices calling my name anymore. I forgot that my stomach was upset. I am going to stand up. I am going join the party because I am sick of feeling beaten down to the ground. I wonder if I can think of a creative excuse for my friends, as to why I was in this fucking bathroom for so long. As I stand, I notice how much I have sobered up. But my unhealthy feeling hasn’t improved enough. The door to this puke-chamber flung open and a shrill of noise distracted my consciousness and the six people who came flooding past me to use the bathroom didn’t help my dizziness either. This all happened to fast. I can only remember puking on the floor before passing out. I don’t even know if someone took me home yet because I still have not woken up. I cannot even say that this party sucked… only the toilet did.
I can’t say that this party sucks. Despite the fact that I’m hanging my head over a toilet bowl, I am glad that I decide to linger on the wild side. What sucks is this toilet bowl, because who wants to spend any time over a shitty white toilet filled with streak marks and my reflection in the water.
The thunderous sounds of the party explode through the thin wooden door; the handle hanging on one screw and vibrating from the bass of the deafening music playing in the living room. I don’t understand why it must be played so loud and why everyone must be yelling at full volume… I am hearing twelve million different voices calling my name through the door- afraid to enter, just in case my pants are to my ankles and I’m taking a crap or masturbating. How do they know I’m feeling sick? They’re probably as drunk as I am. I hear “Marc, Marc; Marc!” oh, shut the fuck up! My head is spinning in six different directions and I cannot tell if I’m feeling any better with my irritated toes and my bruised knees hanging over this toilet! I have to admit, I am sick of hearing my name so many times. I don’t even understand why my parents named me Marc. What an annoying name, and it sounds even worse when I’m drunk.
I think my stomach is recovering from the alcohol because I am no longer experiencing some type of vice-gripping pain. I want to puke a little bit more, just in case I am wrong.
“Come On, Man. Are you gonna join the party, or be a loner all damn night, Marc?”
Who is that? I cannot even make out the voice. It sounds like I’m in a sewer pipe. I still need to keep my eyes closed because I am still spinning. I am definitely not well yet…
“Marc, I’m drinking your Jack and coke, you fucker!”
I can’t believe this; I am going to kick that kid’s ass… My stomach might feel like that handle on this bathroom door, but I will kill that kid! The music kept playing, my head kept spinning, and my name reserved its place in the door. I just might hurl again and I suppose I will feel better after that. But I cannot throw this feeling up… I mean I’m not going to stick my fingers to the back of my throat and pull my uvula in order to throw up! I am physically alone. The soul that’s trying to escape me leaves me grooving in sorrow and I cannot gather my thoughts to find strength.
I can decipher my pale face in the bottom of the bowl and every time I spit into the water, the picture of my face separates. I must be concentrating so hard on my face that I forgot that I was still rocking back and forth. I couldn’t even hear the voices calling my name anymore. I forgot that my stomach was upset. I am going to stand up. I am going join the party because I am sick of feeling beaten down to the ground. I wonder if I can think of a creative excuse for my friends, as to why I was in this fucking bathroom for so long. As I stand, I notice how much I have sobered up. But my unhealthy feeling hasn’t improved enough. The door to this puke-chamber flung open and a shrill of noise distracted my consciousness and the six people who came flooding past me to use the bathroom didn’t help my dizziness either. This all happened to fast. I can only remember puking on the floor before passing out. I don’t even know if someone took me home yet because I still have not woken up. I cannot even say that this party sucked… only the toilet did.
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