"It was a waiting game. I had the sweats, I had the look and now I just had to wait until the camp supervisor came looking for me, after I didn’t show up for supper. I must have waited about an hour in that cubicle. Suddenly, I heard footsteps in the distance and immediately started to dry-reach. Coughing and spluttering wouldn’t get me out of there. It would just get me sympathy from all of the other teenagers at the camp, looking for 'brownie points' from the supervisors. Vomiting was the only way out. I heaved. I chucked. I hurled. For that few minutes, as the supervisor entered the bathroom, calling my name, I was the Anthony Hopkins of puking. My audience, though limited to a single, naïve person, was very receptive and called my mother to come and collect me immediately."
(Sept. 16, 2009, Peter Taggart, On the Verge of Compassion)
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