This was written to a Usenet group in 1994. The censorship of the expletives is original. It is an extremely graphic description of what happened to him when he was given syrup of ipecac to induce vomiting when he was in the emergency room for drug intoxication.

I was 19 at the time, and somehow found myself in a hospital in LA (where I was living at the time) with a belly and bloodstream full of some f*cking awful substances designed to make you forget what's wrong with the world. ***

They proceeded to strap me to a bed, since they couldn't tell *what* I was on (I don't quite remember, either, just that it was okay until the walls started bleeding and people started melting). They gave me some green liquid stuff and said "drink this." I slammed it back in one gulp, and then remembered stories about syrup of ipecac. I questioned the nurse and she said "here. you'll need this" and handed me a barf bucket.

I was *really* pissed off at her for tricking me, and I was about to tell her so when a rumble started down below. It felt like hell trying to escape from the confines of the underworld through *my* digestive system. Then, I spewed *hard*. It was an eeiry brownish color, and it had lots of chunks in it. I presumed it was my breakfast, plus undigested pills, and maybe a few internal organs.

"Well," I thought, "that wasn't too bad for b... [barfing]" and spewed again, even harder. It hurt so bad that I thought my gut was going to implode and then come up my throat. Plus, the bucket already had some stuff in it, and so it splashed all over the place, but mostly on my face. Puke hurts like hell when it gets in your eyes. This surge was more yellowish, and I thought "great. I guess my bladder is coming up next, since its contents just passed out my mouth," and the thought of that made me puke (and splatter) again.

I was still literally blowing chunks, and I couldn't figure out what it was. I hadn't eaten anything *that* solid in the last day or so (I had ice cream for dinner the night before). It looked like shish-kabobs, marinating in my puke, which had begun to look like Nestlie Quick (can't spell it properly, or I might get sued) that needs another spoonful of powder.

By now, the smell was getting bad, and so I hurled again. And it splattered *again*. I was still quite upset, but I was concentraing on puking up that damn ipecac so I could quit heaving. I puked again, and realized that I was going to die from puking so much. I could hardly breathe, and when I could, it filled my lungs with an acrid stench that came out my nose as I exhaled while puking. All in all, I puked seven times before it finally stopped.

My stomach felt like someone had just punched me in the gut with brass knuckles and twisted them on impact. It also felt like I had to puke again. I was terrified of puking, because I just knew that I was going to see some of my internal organs come up, too. I called the nurse and begged her to not make me puke again. She said she couldn't stop me from puking, and took my bucket to empty it.

B*tch brought the *same* bucket back (it was a heavy paper job; disposable) and it stank and had some chunks still sticking to the sides. Well, that made me hurl again. It felt just like before, only this time, it was a thick yellowy liquid that I was certain was my actual stomach, liquefied by the constant retching.

I asked the nurse to empty the bucket again, but she wouldn't (said it wasn't full enough to justify another trip to the disposal). So, I downed a glass of water from the bedside table, which made me hurl again. The yellow liquid was back, but less thick, since it was diluted with water. Then I puked again, but a lot less liquid, and more heaving air. It seemed to be enough for the nurse, and she took the bucket again. Since I had no more chunks in my stomach to blow for the second filling of the bucket, there weren't any more left when the bucket came back, since my liquid intestines had given enough liquid to wash the remaining chunks (from filling #1) out of the bucket. But it still stank.

I wanted to puke again, because of the stench, but there wasn't anything left. I know `cause I heaved air again a few times and it hurt like a mother. Then I laid down and went to sleep (dreamed some damn awful dreams, let me tell you), and woke up a few hours later, delighted to witness my stomach being pumped (hey *ssholes! wasn't the heaving enough for you? give my guts [what's left of them, anyway] a break, okay?)

Several hours later, after most of the drugs had worked their way out my system (more than half of them through my mouth, same way they came in), I was pretty coherent, and I told the nurse I didn't like being tricked into drinking the ipecac. She said tough, that's what I get for being a junkie.

Well, a few years, and some rehab later, I'm back, and I'd really like to give that b*tch a piece of my mind (and my guts, too) about what compassion is and all that stuff that nobody really cares about.