Once, on a First Thursday about 5 or 6 years ago, Matthew and I decided to wander around SoCo to check stuff out. It wasn’t as fun as we’d thought, but at least we got out on a Thursday night.
I was a little hungry, so I happily took the free popcorn. It was not great popcorn. It was not so warm anymore, and it was oversalted. But it was that kind of hungry at night where you don’t really care. I ate much of it anyway. Then, in the garden space on Congress next to Guerros, some guys were selling a microbrew of raspberry beer. I don’t know why that sounded, like a good idea, but it did. Never again. I drank the beer, thinking it tasted a little bad, but hell, it was beer. I drank a full plastic cup’s worth.
Not long after that, we went home. The raspberry beer (which probably was bad) and the cold, salty popcorn started warring in my stomach. I started to get that feeling of needing to burp a little too much. It kept coming up, and I’d try to burp it away. Then all of a sudden, I had to puke right then. I ran to the bathroom, barely making it as the raspberry popcorn mix shot out of me. I tasted the bad beer, now made super-salty, as it unfortunately passed my lips for a second time. I heaved as my body rejected the stupid nutritional decisions I’d made that night.
After the last disgusting heave of that mess, I went back into the living room, to my horrified emetophobic boyfriend, and announce, “Well, I feel much better now!”