Vomiting Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-cannot-imagine-any-boy-spirit-who-would-not-be-delighted-to-play-drunkard-even-to-vomiting-in-front-his-sunday-school-indeed-vomiting-might-be-robertson-davies
the-best-part-about-vomiting-is-that-right-after-you-do-you-can-continue-eating-jarod-kintz
im-vomiting-days-before-i-start-shooting-new-movie
complaining-is-like-vomiting-you-might-feel-better-after-you-get-it-out-but-you-make-everybody-around-you-sick-paul-molitor
childhood-is-cannibals-psychotics-vomiting-in-your-mouth-maurice-sendak
if-youre-not-bleeding-vomiting-or-on-fire-chill-out-and-stop-crying
i-actually-think-creative-process-is-finite-im-wondering-whether-ive-retched-everything-up-because-its-like-vomiting-shitting-andy-partridge
an-astonishing-portion-my-life-is-built-around-trying-to-evade-vomiting-preparing-for-eventuality-that-i-might
im-going-to-go-throw-up-now-because-ive-turned-into-my-dad-if-vomiting-doesnt-work-ill-see-if-i-can-get-exorcism-veronica-blade
it-took-many-years-vomiting-up-all-filth-id-been-taught-about-myself-halfbelieved-before-i-was-able-to-walk-on-earth-as-though-i-had-right-to-be-james-a-baldwin
sorry-youre-having-trouble-determining-if-your-nausea-and-vomiting-are-from-the-flu-or-your-horrible-drinking-problem
the-safest-day-at-melody-is-st-paddys-adds-another-mardi-gras-girl-all-cops-are-out-vomiting-at-parade-josh-alan-friedman
there-were-few-nighttime-pedestrians-on-block-but-they-continued-on-their-way-dutifully-ignoring-zombie-vomiting-blood-out-back-my-car-good-old-new-yorkers-they-really-couldnt-ca
people-confuse-fact-that-i-discuss-drinking-openly-with-idea-that-im-heavy-drinker-i-dont-want-girls-at-my-show-wasted-screaming-yelling-out-chelsea-handler
the-fear-vomiting-which-for-me-is-one-most-original-most-acute-my-fears-is-actually-fairly-common-emetophobia-its-called-by-some-estimates-its-fifth-most-common-specific-phobia
everybody-had-been-in-their-twenties-then-well-round-about-thirty-now-from-round-about-seventy-all-those-years-maturity-prime-life-whatever-you-called-it-looked-like-interval-bet
your-friends-poetry-is-terrible-he-said-clary-blinked-caught-momentarily-off-guard-what-i-said-his-poetry-was-terrible-it-sounds-like-he-ate-dictionary-started-vomiting-up-words-
There are no specific memories of the first time I used ketamine, which was around age 17 or 18. The strongest recollection of ketamine use regarded an instance when I was concurrently smoking marijuana and inhaling nitrous oxide. I was in an easy chair and the popular high school band Sublime was playing on the CD player. I was with a friend. We were snorting lines of ketamine and then smoking marijuana from a pipe and blowing the marijuana smoke into a nitrous-filled balloon and inhaling and exhaling the nitrous-filled balloon until there was no more nitrous oxide in the balloon to achieve acute sensations of pleasure, [adjective describing state in which one is unable to comprehend anything], disorientation, etc. The first time I attempted this process my vision behaved as a compact disc sound when it skips - a single frame of vision replacing itself repeatedly for over 60 seconds, I think. Everything was vibrating. Obviously I couldn't move. My friend was later vomiting in the bathroom a lot and I remember being particularly fascinated by the sound of it; it was like he was screaming at the same time as vomiting, which I found funny, and he was making, to a certain degree, demon-like noises. My time 'with' ketamine lasted three months at the most, but despite my attempts I never achieved a 'k-hole.' At a party, once, I saw a girl sitting in bushes and asked her what she was doing and she said "I'm in a 'k-hole.'" While I have since stopped doing ketamine because of availability and lack of interest, I would do ketamine again because I would like to be in a 'k-hole.

Brandon Scott Gorrell
there-are-no-specific-memories-first-time-i-used-ketamine-which-was-around-age-17-18-the-strongest-recollection-ketamine-use-regarded-instance-when-i-was-concurrently-smoking-mar
and-i-remember-wondering-why-it-was-that-eating-something-good-could-make-me-feel-terrible-while-vomiting-something-terrible-could-make-me-feel-good-amy-tan
the presence of others has become even more intolerable to me, their conversation most of all. Oh, how it all annoys and exasperates me: their attitudes, their manners, their whole way of being! The people of my world, all my unhappy peers, have come to irritate, oppress and sadden me with their noisy and empty chatter, their monstrous and boundless vanity, their even more monstrous egotism, their club gossip... the endless repetition of opinions already formed and judgments already made; the automatic vomiting forth of articles read in those morning papers which are the recognised outlet of the hopeless wilderness of their ideas; the eternal daily meal of overfamiliar cliches concerning racing stables and the stalls of fillies of the human variety... the hutches of the 'petites femmes' - another worn out phrase in the dirty usury of shapeless expression! Oh my contemporaries, my dear contemporaries... Their idiotic self-satisfaction; their fat and full-blown self-sufficiency: the stupid display of their good fortune; the clink of fifty- and a hundred-franc coins forever sounding out their financial prowess, according their own reckoning; their hen-like clucking and their pig-like grunting, as they pronounce the names of certain women; the obesity of their minds, the obscenity of their eyes, and the toneless-ness of their laughter! They are, in truth, handsome puppets of amour, with all the exhausted despondency of their gestures and the slackness of their chic... Chic! A hideous word, which fits their manner like a new glove: as dejected as undertakers' mutes, as full-blown as Falstaff... Oh my contemporaries: the ceusses of my circle, to put it in their own ignoble argot. They have all welcomed the moneylenders into their homes, and have been recruited as their clients, and they have likewise played host to the fat journalists who milk their conversations for the society columns. How I hate them; how I execrate them; how I would love to devour them liver and lights - and how well I understand the Anarchists and their bombs!

Jean Lorrain
presence-others-has-become-even-more-intolerable-to-me-their-conversation-most-all-oh-how-it-all-annoys-exasperates-me-their-attitudes-their-manners-their-whole-way-being-the-peo
It felt like being shot with an arrow, and Will jerked back. His wineglass crashed to the floor and shattered. He lurched to his feet, leaning both hands on the table. He was vaguely aware of stares, and the landlords anxious voice in his ear, but the pain was too great to think through, almost too great to breathe through. The tightness in his chest, the one he had thought of as one end of a cord tying him to Jem, had pulled so taut that it was strangling his heart. He stumbled away from his table, pushing through a knot of customers near the bar, and passed to the front door of the inn. All he could think of was air, getting air into his lungs to breathe. He pushed the doors open and half-tumbled out into the night. For a moment the pain in his chest eased, and he fell back against the wall of the inn. Rain was sheeting down, soaking his hair and clothes. He gasped, his heart stuttering with a misture of terror and desperation. Was this just the distance from Jem affecting him? He had never felt anything like this, even when Jem was at his worst, even when he'd been injured and Will had ached with sympathetic pain. The cord snapped. For a moment everything went white, the courtyard bleeching through as if with acid. Will jackknifed to his knees, vomiting up his supper into the mud. When the spasms had passed , he staggard to his feet and blindly away from the inn, as if trying to outpace his own pain. He fetched up against the wall of the stables, beside the horse trough. He dropped to his knees to plunge his hands into the icy water-and saw his own reflection. There was his face, as white as death, and his shirt, and a spreading stain of red across the front. With wet hands he siezed at his lapels and jerked the shirt open. In the dim light that spilled from the inn, he could see that his parabati rune, just over his heart, was bleeding. His hands were covered in blood, blood mixed with rain, the same ran that was washing the blood away from his chest, showing the rune as it began to fade from black to silver, changing all that had been sense in Will's life into nonsense. Jem was dead.

Cassandra Clare
it-felt-like-being-shot-with-arrow-will-jerked-back-his-wineglass-crashed-to-floor-shattered-he-lurched-to-his-feet-leaning-both-hands-on-table-he-was-vaguely-aware-stares-landlo
Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I'm told. Not doing it the second time I'm told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I'm old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don't know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn't fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that's not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I'm called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV's volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I'm going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly's doll's hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don't grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don't see until it's too late. Giving my mother's good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine's Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don't fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don't like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth's eating a candy bar I didn't pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn't put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

Bob Thurber
things-i-used-to-get-hit-for-talking-back-being-smart-acting-stupid-not-listening-not-answering-first-time-not-doing-what-im-told-not-doing-it-second-time-im-told-running-jumping
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