I’m convinced. Nothing convinces me like puking convinces me. Puking convinces me with absolute pure and immutable resolution bigger and more solid than a huge windowless brick building that life always has a base or even baser place waiting just one bad dinner away.

So here I am on my hands and knees on the floor over a half full pan, in that baser place. I think about how some boxers puke before weigh-ins, then next thing I know I’m remembering the club and how everybody talked about the legendary fast food runs that coach treats his fighters too after the weigh in, and this one time when someone’s like “ah man, I’d load up on double macs” and one of the assistant coaches is like “awwwwWWw MAN that stuff’s nasty, you gotta go B-K or the Bell,” which by the way is totally the truth. But that’s mostly aside of the point, except that this thought triggered another one, and in a moment, me on my knees over a pan, pathetically wheezing little breaths because for a reason I don’t understand puking jacks up the respiratory system, every single strategically placed subliminal message of McDonalds’ big and disgusting food came rushing into my nauseous head at once.

I puked again.