4) Orange juice and wood

One of my absolute most favorite things in the world is vomiting up orange juice. Especially right after I have brushed my teeth and a smidgen makes it's way up the nose.

The morning is probably the best time of day for it to happen. Followed closely by the moment right before you have completely gotten comfortable before bed. Curling up under the covers after you have made the last stretch of the day and the muscles in your body have given up their battle for first place in the least amount of charlie horses in a given month, contest. You feel a slight burp come from deep within your soul. It's a trick. Don't be fooled. Follow through on that gas expulsion and tangy, warm sludge for the Netherlands will find a new home in the crease of your pillow case. Hold strong. Cupping your mouth will only shatter the stream, spraying the goods in hard to reach places. Have faith in your legs and gag reflex. After all, what have all those deep throating adventures been for if not this precise moment? The bathroom is in mind sight. No time for lights. It's now or never. This is not a drill. Nor is it the time to find the end of your night stand with your big toe. God didn't manufacture carpenters for a pleasure cruise, this is a test of your endurance, of your strength of faith and heart. Navigate blindly over your wooden trenches, past your cherry oak stained mortar mines. Your mouth is filling. Your throat expands with the force of a double sided dildo bent in half and experimented with, only once...never again. This is where your left brain kicks in and dictates to your relaxed muscles to get it together. It's time you've graduated out of fat camp and into the locker room.

The slow eroding feeling against the enamel on the backs of your front teeth and the tunneling between molars is almost too much to bear. But opening now would spell disaster. It would spell it with partially digested fruit all over the walls. The night light that flickers on and off to the right of the sink mocks as it sees glimpses of you stammering to the toilet. Almost robotic in form, ABBA makes it's way to the front of the line in your head. Dancing Queen? As if. It's the Name of the Game smacks you in the face as you lean your right hand on the counter and left hand on the lid of the toilet. "Does she mean anything to you?". Direct hit.

The projectile fountain emerges from your soul as beautifully as a jet from the Bellagio. Splash down. It only takes a second for the warmth to separate from the liquid. Cooling fast, the gut jizz slips into the pot. After a brief moment of enjoying the sensation in your nose, you wipe the corners of your mouth with a swatch of toilet paper and dab your brow. Rising from your knees, which is a practice you have gotten increasingly good at, you try to adjust your line of sight on the bowl. Light helps in this moment. Too rushed before to turn it on, you back track now to the switch. Marvel in your work. You did it. Another successful leap of faith....Too bad you missed.

Alternate endings:
1) Marvel in your work. You did it. Another successful leap of faith....Now clean off grandma, she was sleep walking again.
2) ...Now scoop it out, you've got lube for a month.
3) ...You can eat your corn again.
4) ...You just need to get past the smell and skat is not that bad....that one didn't even make sense.