Vomits That I Have Known and the Awards That They Deserve

Vomit and I have a relationship that goes back to my infancy, although I don't remember the early days of it with much clarity. Nor do I recall some of the later years.
It's always been a passive-aggressive relationship, tainted by wary caution, open hostility and outright disgust.

I got really sick yesterday. We were playing kickball during a heat advisory (heat index 110 f) which turned out to be a pretty bad idea. It was fun for a couple innings, but after a while I started feeling dizzy. It started getting hard to run from base to base and to chase fouls in the field.

The other team kicked the ball straight at me. I caught it.
Then everything went white- I couldn't see anything-just white.
"Throw it!", I heard someone shout. "Throw it!"
Throw what? I'm not even sure where my hands are, much less what's in them.
Besides, I'm busy standing up. It's suddenly extremely difficult to do so, even without someone yelling at me. I think that maybe I'm dying, but that thought seems as far away as everything else. It doesn't really bother me.
I remain in this state for what seems like days, but my friends said was about 1o seconds.
I stagger to the bench. Water. Glug, glug ,glug.
"Are you OK?"
"Yes", I lie.
Oh, no, not at all, I think.
Guys? I gotta go home. Now.
I make it to my car, but as soon as the blast of super-heated air from my Honda Sun Oven rushes out to greet me it's too late. Hands and knees, puking still-cold water into the gutter. This is the first time I've ever done this while sober. I'm hoping that no one sees me.
Then I realize that I can't stand up. I can shake and quiver, but I can't stand up.
I start hoping that someone can see me. Hospital seems like a possibilty.

Alright. It passes quickly. I manage to get into my car, crank the A/C up and make it home.
I grab the entire water jug from the kitchen, go upstairs and lie down. I'm soaking wet.
Small sips. Only small sips.
Get into.
Cold shower.
Get into.
Dry, loose fitting clothes.
Get into.
Bed.
Small sips, I remind myself. Small sips.
I feel sick, but I manage to keep the sips down.
I have popsicles and Ice Soup for dinner.

So I award myself the First-Ever PDP (Pure Dumbass Puking) Medal. Yay me!
(This morning I hear that another young and healthy Pro Football player has died from what may well be heat-related causes)

While I'm dressing I notice that my eldest cat has puked on the stairs. She's weird like that. In the morning, she waits for me to go into the bathroom to uh,' read the paper' before she uses her litterbox in the nearby closet.
If I vomit, she vomits.
Between my two cats, they do the majority of the household vomiting. I don't get sick when they do- I just get disgusted and grumpy. One of my kitties has a kidney history, so I have to examine his spew to make sure there isn't blood or anything unusual in it.
This examination requires bright light. Use plastic fork to squish, poke and stir this mess. I try to keep this in perspective-it's not as bad as diaper duty, I'm sure , but it's still gross.
Despite my pleas to my neighbors, someone's been feeding him- the undigested dryfood has Meow Mix shapes, but the vet med food he's supposed to eat comes in little tic-tac sized pellets.
His puke is pellet-free. Like most Americans, my cat prefers junk food to health food.

I hereby award all my cats, past and present the RUM (Reliably Unpleasant Mess) medal.

Speaking of Rum, I will never , ever drink Demon Rum again. At least not the cheap-ass Bacardi/Capt. Morgan shit. If you can afford expensive rum, buy Single Malt Scotch instead. Need I say more?
There is no medal awarded for booze pukes.

There is , however , a Deli-Belly Bravery Medal. You know, when your sandwich tastes just a little funny at lunch, but yer starvin' and broke , so ya eat it anyway?
8 hours later, you'd better have a bathroom small enough to reach the sink from the seat, or a big bucket. No matter what color you normally are, your skin turns Roswell Alien Gray. Luckily, you are probably too sick to look in the mirror.

All the booze, all the drugs and all the crazy shit I've done , and until recently I've been convinced that the closest I've ever come to death was at the hands of a turkey sandwich.

Now I'm wondering if I almost died from playing kickball.
Whatta way to go.

I often hear idiot guys say that they wanna die during sex. I think that's more than a little bit selfish and inconsiderate of their partner-fill in the details yourself, I'm still somewhat queasy from yesterday and need to keep my breakfast down.

Unrelated: Tomorrow I start mortgage class. I'm dreading it. I hate classrooms. Can't you just give me a book and pay me to read it? Most people read so infrequently that they will believe you when you tell them it took you five weeks to read one book. In fact, they will probably be amazed that you read at all.
Aaarghh... I'll be getting paid to sit and listen to corporate bullshit. Don't they realize I'm a 'loose cannon'? Before they hired me, they fired me. For the 2nd, 3rd time? I lose track.
I mean , I got fired for indifference. When told by Agency Girl that they had to let me go, I just shrugged and left. Inwardly, I was really worried about $$$, but I thought finding a shit job would be easy. It's not. I've got a fairly serious looking ( in reality it is tiny) Federal drug conviction, shitty credit and a piss-poor attitude according to Agency Girl. I have anecdotal evidence that they've said these things to other employers, thus costing me jobs. I need this on tape.

The less said about this, the better.