The room is a bustling orgy of movement. Swaying left, right and left again before I run for the ladies room, overcome by nausea. Must be motion sickness. Happened during Blair Witch too.

The hollow bounce of the stall door echoes thunder in my head. I lean further over the toilet seat; it is glistening white with chunks of my dinner speckled around the edges. I watch the swirl of the water, unending, fluid, pure, calming and downward. I rest my pained feet, cramped like cattle cars in 1940.

How did I end up like this?

I once wrote down a list of rules to live by in my journal. It was to be the law that governed my life. It was so beautiful, innocent and revolting that I hurled again at the thought.

Never get stuck in an unfulfilling job.
Less regrets and worries.
Die young, but live life.

I retch and gag, roll over and feel for the porcelain. The white, pristine spring of forgiveness. I could have written Hallmark cards.

Somewhere along the path of life I decided to go offroad - a whale run aground. But life is a highway, so why can't I find an offramp? I missed my exit ten minutes ago and now I am sitting in a mildew-stained tile washroom, staring at the phone numbers of previous occupants offering sexual favours with flecks of spaghetti sauce in my hair.

How did I end up like this?
Must have fallen asleep with the cruise control on...