11-21-00
One time in high school, I went in a little under the weather. Before school you could get some sort of half-assed, ridiculously cheap breakfast for like 40 cents, and the breakfast that morning was french toast.
This was no ordinary french toast. This was a piece of starchy white bread dredged in a viscous egg mixture and then deep fat fried into a greasy toastish substance. One side of the toast was always covered in gobs of fried egg bubbles.
Somehow I managed to not only eat this regularly, but actually enjoy it. Until that morning. Shortly after consuming several pieces of this culinary treat, I found myself sprinting down the hallway into the girl's locker room, where I proceeded to blow eggy chunks of french toast and waves of maple-flavored syrup into a toilet. My stomach kept convulsing as I lay there, my mouth filled with the sickening mix of bile and syrup.
I went home for the rest of that day.
To this day, the sight of french toast gives me percussive waves of nausea. I can't even talk about the smell without dry heaving.
