I’ve always been a puker. I puked on my wedding night, on the afternoon I walked into Jax’s room and life changed, tilted to that dizzying angle. Things just don’t stay down with me. They have to come up somehow, find some air, get some space. Days I’ll just go to the bathroom and stick my finger down my throat to rid myself of it, whatever it is. Not just a veal parm sandwich from Hoagie’s either. There is something refreshing, something real, about getting rid of what backs up inside of you. Even if it leaves you with watery eyes and this nasty taste inside your mouth, a taste like toothpaste gone horridly wrong, something you can’t rid yourself of no matter how many times you brush your teeth, so intrepid and insistent it is along your teeth, atop your tongue. It’s like chalk in a sense, this quasi-regret. Better to taste it than to feel it. Better to grimace than cry.
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