Zach and I met up with some friends at a local Mexican restaurant called Guerros.  Both of us had eaten there before and we loved the food.  We ate and hung out with our friends and then went home.  I was tossing and turning all night and around 2:00am I woke up realized my stomach was really upset.  I tried to go to the bathroom…but nothing.  Back to bed, up 5 mintues later to try again….nothing.  About 3:00 I bolted up in bed and literally ran to the bathroom.  You know those fancy shower heads that are really wide with a bunch of holes, the ones that mimic a real rainstorm?  Yeah that’s what it was like only instead of crystal clear water coming out of a chrome head, Chicken Especial was raining out of my rear end.  It was the most foul thing I have experienced.  I’m in and out of the bathroom and then I hear Zach.  I go and check on why he’s up, and it’s because he’s puking in the kitchen.  I run back to the bathroom to puke and the second I’m done puking I have to hop back on the toilet for the “rainshower.�  Then I have to hurry up because it’s Zach’s turn. 

And so it goes, for 24 hours straight.

We had to share one tiny apartment bathroom and alternate turns for puking and the chicken rainshower.  It was vile and I never ever want to be that close to another human being.  That experience was horrific and I’ll never…NEVER eat at Guerros again.

Interestingly, the feelings I have for Guerros pale in comparison to my resolve to never go back to Missouri. 

 

 

As far as I’m concerned, the entire Midwest is written off of my things to do list, as is share a bathroom with my fiancé while we both expel halfway digested food from all orifices of our bodies.  Yuck on both counts.