Oh, Park Slope. In this cold, horrible world in which we live -- the one in which I contemplate kicking your strollers and you often consider shoving me off my bike in traffic, admit it -- sometimes you find the warm-fuzzy in situations. Especially situations involving vomit.
Just like this Craiglister, for instance:
m4w, 22, of Park Slope writes:
To the pretty woman on the G who threw up on me
We met last Thursday, riding the train a little before noon. Despite your slumped over demeanor, I could tell you were very pretty, and dressed very well. I took the only open seat next to you, I have to admit I wrote you off as hungover. But when your head popped up from your lap to vomit outwards, I knew you were the real deal.
I tried to keep the conversation as light as possible after you told me how embarrassed you felt, and how your antibiotics were messing with your stomach and mind. I was honestly impressed that you had attempted to go to work that morning in your condition, but didn't want to bother you. Then the train stalled for fifteen minutes and we stopped talking.
Everyone watched it slide down to the other end of the train, and I felt awful that I didn't have a plastic bag to offer in case it happened again.
You got off a stop before I did.
Let me know if you want to take a second crack at this. I think we hit it off well, in spite of your condition. I hope you are feeling better.
Applause to the woman, who was cogent enough to convey, "I swear to fucking god, I'm not hungover," which I've proudly done many, many times before. And also to the dude who decided it jucious, necessary, and inspiring enough to see past the river of puke weaving through the post-rush hour footprint grime to identify the "real deal". Whatever that is.
What have you learned from this, singles? Always carry an airplane sickness bag.
Love is beautiful!
[Thanks to our friends at Brokelyn for the tip!]