Damn The Diaphragm

Our faces are dangerously close together. We keep talking. Closer. And closer. And closer still. And then it happens.

I get the hiccups.

And not tiny squeaking ones. Big heaving ones. I feel like my lungs and guts may burst through my skin at any moment.

“Are you going to throw up?” he asks me, genuinely concerned that the creature from Alien may pop out of my chest.

I hadn’t thought about it. Now it’s all I can think about. Am I going to throw up? Why is this happening right here, right now? Does G-d really have it in for me after all?

“No,” I squeak out, attempting a smile and stupidly still trying to remain composed and cute. “Just the hiccups.”

The hiccups sputter, then stall. I breathe a sigh of relief and resume the position. Faces, dangerously close to one another.

Until the hiccups come back. With more gusto this time than the last. Am I having a heart attack? Birthing a steak baby?

This time I am thinking about throwing up (now that the idea has been planted in my head). It sounds lovely and soothing. Anything to make the time bomb in my ribcage stop ticking! But how? Is it possible to gracefully puke your guts out so they stop attacking you?  Negative.

Finally I bid my farewells so I can go home and earp-earp in peace. But magically the hiccups seem to have stopped. I lay in bed, thinking about the day, the evening, tomorrow.  When… Boing boing, back come the hiccups.

Turns out red wine + spicy food + whiskey was a bad idea. Who knew?

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One Response to “Damn The Diaphragm”

  1. Dating and other bad habits. » Blog Archive » Yes, You Are A Douchebag. Says:

    […] looked at my phone there was an assortment of text messages including several from the man who I hiccuped all over only to have Facebook tell me has a […]

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