Get fired? Not likely. It actually takes a lot of talent to have them hate you so much that you’re canned in 24 hours.
Tripping? Not that embarrassing.
Gas? Just play it off as the chair.
I don’t know, your pants rip? Think of anything else? Anything?
How about word vomit…
If you don’t get that reference, watch this poorly dubbed clip from Mean Girls. You’ll get it.
It started off with free chicken wraps. Free food at any job, or anywhere, and I’m sold. I’ll work 15 hour days, I’ll pick up your dog’s poo, I’ll smile and nod while you chuck a phone at my face. My bar is set pretty low. If I had to guess, I’d say around 4 inches, which is the rough equivalent to a plate of free food.
So here I am, sitting at a desk, feeling the vibes of this new office, enjoying a complimentary coca-cola.
My stomach grumbles, but I don’t have time for that shit. I got free food to eat.
Fast forward 4ish hours. This stomach grumble has turned into what feels impending appendicitis. It’s like I’m with child, but not a normal child, like Rosemary’s baby.
“Suck it up,” I tell myself.
Another hour passes and I’m making nervous trips to the bathroom. At this point it’s a mental game. It’s like a hangover, if I think I’m gonna puke I will. If I suck it up, I can get through this.
30 minutes passes and I eat 4 Tums.
30 more minutes pass and I’m looking for Pepto Bismol. I can actually taste my lunch via my burps. At least I’m burping, that has to be a good sign, right?
I’m in the kitchen helping organize something when it comes up.
I run into the bathroom.
Someone says hi, I can’t even jump for joy that she remembered my name.
I attempt to smile, but it comes off more Olsen twin bitchy than Kristen Bell eager. Please don’t hate me.
I burst into the bathroom just as Mount Vesuvius erupts.
I catch it in my hand.
Just as I open the door to the stall, I get a second burst.
I aim towards the toilet but miss and the throw up in my hand splatters against the wall like a Jackson Pollack.
The first stall looks more like remains of ancient Pompeii than a woman’s bathroom.
The only thought that could possibly make me feel queasier than the site of my regurgitated lunch is the thought of someone coming in and seeing the new accent I added.
I frantically begin to wipe away the salad off the toilet seat. I find some baby wipes and use them to wipe down the wall until it’s white again. I flush somewhere between 9-55 times. The guy working outside probably thinks I one of those bulimics.
I hear a flush in the men’s room. Perfect, I can blame the toilet flushing on the guy who just bombed Baghdad (it’s a poop reference).
I clean until the first stall no longer looks like a weird art installation.
It smells worse than the time I witnessed a dog shart. I empty the contents of a Febreeze bottle, inhaling the sweet cross-smell of Moonlit Lavender and my rotting insides.
I take the worst walk of shame of my life from the bathroom to the desk where I inform my new boss that they should probably send a janitor to the ladies room.
I grab my bag and make another walk of shame out of the office 90 minutes earlier than I was supposed to.
I call my mom almost in tears on the way home. I call my best friend, she laughs.
I tend my wounded pride. I blast Miley Cyrus to remind myself that people get over these kind of things.
I arrive home and blow chunks in my garage and moments later in my bathroom.
I think it has ended.