If there’s such thing as blog-hubris then I have surely shown it. I should have known better than to have bragged about an iron-stomach before a weekend away in Philly, where the only vegetables in site were the bok choy before soup dumplings and the onions in our late night “wiz-wit’s”. A wiser man would have waited to return safely to his home city before throwing such careless brags into the wind, because just as a blogger’s victories can be told to the world, so must his defeats. Maybe the rule is that you don’t really make into blog-world before you’ve eaten your words, or in my case, vomited and shit my words all over a bathroom for five hours on Sunday morning. I learned a lot about myself in those five hours, principally that I don’t have the iron stomach I thought I did, that I will not eat soup dumpling’s for the foreseeable future, and that true pain is trying to raise your type 1 diabetic low blood sugar to a safe level while vomiting up everything that touches your lips.

While I’ve faced difficult situations before, what happened in the wee hours of Sunday morning left me a broken man. I should get a tattoo of the fetal position over my heart because that's what painting the walls of a washroom with cold ones, soup dumplings, and shame will do to a man. You can't see what I've seen, or do what I've done, and expect to look at the world the same way. I can’t recall what angels or demons came to me in my fever dreams as I leaned against the sink in a lavish Philadelphia loft, but I hope I never meet them again.