And you find yourself sprawled out on the floor of your sister's bathroom, naked, your arms held tight at your sides as if it was somehow possible to prevent your contents from escaping, and all you could think of is how cool the tile feels against your fevered skin while you count the seconds until the muscles in your abdomen spasm against the sudden, stabbing wrath of The Devil's Donut. You listen to the throbbing pulse reverberating through your skull as the saliva in your mouth begins to thin out, signalling the onset of another purge. By this time you know you have about a minute before the bile comes rushing out of your face. A hoarse, half-hearted whimper escapes your lips as you will yourself to your knees -- the room spins violently and your head feels a ton too heavy, but you manage to drag yourself over to the edge of the toilet. Your eyes press shut as you dive headfirst into the water, your body folding over the seat like a wet rag. The sudden change in scenery comes crisp and refreshing; you imagine yourself swimming the icy waters of the Arctic Ocean, like an aftershave commercial, except in this version the Arctic smells like ass and your eyes burn from the active ingredient in 2000 Flushes. The prospect of drowning in your own vomit becomes less appealing by the second, so you lift your head from the inky dankness and wait. And wait. And somehow you're taken by surprise as the bitter harshness comes screaming out of your mouth and nose, torching EVERYTHING in it's wake like the Roman Legion. The horrifying sounds of your wretched heaving echo off the walls and flood the house and scare the neighborhood kids and you think: "God, maybe I SHOULD sue Hostess this time."
But you put it off because now you really gotta shit.