An emetophobe’s lament (*warning, faint image of vomit*)

 

It destroys me every day I have to pass by it.

 

I refuse to park near it, although today I blanked and forgot where it was, and discovered to my horror that I was only about 2 or 3 spaces down from the bubbly, repulsive spectacle. It lives in perpetual disgust, a pile of fear, a puddle that rivets a dagger of torment through my soul.

 

And yet. I cannot not look. I have to look. It’s at least a week old. Today I parked too close and I flinched. But at least I got a photo of it, from the safety of my car’s rolled up windows.

 

 

 

puke litle

 

 

 

I cannot get any closer, ever.

 

It is the biggest puke puddle I think I’ve ever seen. Now it’s quite possible there have been others bigger, but this one is new and it’s fresh and the impression it leaves on my mind is of pond-sized mammoth-osity. This is a big freakin’ gooey glob of vomit. It sits on the third floor of the parking structure at the wall-end of a parking stall. I’m an emetophobe and this thing terrifies the absolute shit out of me. I can’t take the sight or the existence of such a repulsive, projectiled substance of abdominal origins. I want to run, but on the other hand. I can’t take my eyes away from this.

 

It’s catharsis of terror.

 

I spy from afar, because I can never get close enough to experience the detail of this pool of despair. Still, I find that I glance at this dried vomit lake bed every time I pass because I simply must experience the horror anew each time, from an albeit hazy, distant viewpoint. I can’t allow myself to get close enough to detail its minute construction.

 

It’s well-preserved by the normal yardstick of public pukes. It sits in a covered parking structure, the sun never diffuses or evaporates its slimy entrails. Birds and other vomit-eating creatures don’t enter our parking structure. It is a cold time of year. The puke has nowhere to go so it just sits there, retaining all its wonderfully original vivid colors and texture, preserved in time for my anguish.

 

I contemplate its origins through the phobic haze that frightens my consternation. It is a big puke. It looks like someone heaved up a full Mexican or Italian dinner.

 

How must that have that sounded or looked to witness first-hand? It’s bad enough living with the dreadful aftereffects on a daily basis. I can’t imagine having been there when this filthy splurge was left upon our pristine Earth.

 

The image, of mythical birth and proportions, grows in the tremulous caverns of my soul, and what was once small grows like a consuming blob of puke. Each time I pass it, the untold story grows more eerie and mysterious and its sour, rancid tendrils come to wicked life and extend out persistently and will not allow me to flee.

 

 

 

puke big

 

 

Help my soul.