Although I felt pounded into a paste when I woke up on Sunday, I honestly felt that my time to be sick had passed in the wee hours of the morning. This was my first experience with absinthe, the alcohol that knows no such decorum. We had walked a few blocks when the serious nausea began. As we turned onto Rue Ste-Catherine, Stacy made a light remark about alcohol and my mouth started to gush with saliva. Oh no, I thought, not here. The sidewalk was full of people - it was a gorgeous Montreal day, full of kids & sunlight with a conspicuous lack of planters or garbage cans. I began to panic with as much energy as I could spare from walking and willing my stomach to peace. A magical garbage filled alley appeared on my left. At least, that's how it appeared to me: like the gods had smiled upon my poisoned body. Later I had the delirious thought that I would never be able to find this alley again, that it had been called into being for my benefit only. But at that moment there was no flighty Sandman-esque contemplation. At that moment there was only purging, and holding back my hair. I hung my coat on a Dumpster and purged some more. When my bout of reverse peristalsis ceased, I was dimly pleased to note that I had kept relatively clean. Dirk handed me a cotton handkerchief, and in a few minutes we were able to continue on our way. me & my alley. there is a sign above my head reading "classy." because i am. "Absinthe obviously turns me into a vomiting asshole." I, of course, was deeply embarrassed at my rockstar performance. During lunch I continued to mutter apologies until told to shut up. Despite my embarrassment, I felt 1000x better. "As if my Q impression needed this final capstone..."