When I was, like, five, I was sitting on the floral couch and looking at the old shag carpet that the house we’d moved into came with. The large woodgrain television may have been turned on, and not because I remember it, but because the televisions were always on at our house. But anyway, I was looking at the shag, and I threw up. I left a little pool of vomit nestled between the cushion and the crotch of my shorts. It was vaguely similar to orange cream soda. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I started crying. Pop got pissed, of course, and made me feel like shit about it. Mom, though, she came in and cleaned it up so I could stand and go bathe.
That’s about all I remember.