Hey, even Shakespeare used the word "puking"

Today the internal pressure had reached boiling point. You know, just like when you get the flu and you know you're going to barf whether you make it to the loo or not? Well, I had some worries to get off my chest that couldn't wait any longer, and like throwing up on a crowded bus, it's going to get on the nearest person whether they really mind it or not. So there I am at work in Yvonne's office emotionally vomiting anxieties of my impending single-ness all over her, poor captive girl. And after hearing enough of my ridiculous bitching, she says that I should stop analyzing every last little thing and just go with what feels right.

[I pause momentarily to introspect]

I can't believe it. I say that to everybody I know. I dispense that advice more frequently than an "Our exquisite replica of..." machine in a truck stop bathroom douses people with oily smelly ooze. ("How would you know about that? Hmm?" I hear you ask. I plead the fifth.) It drives me up the fucking wall when people dissect, analyze, misinterpret, and overreact to every little far-fetched "what-if" their imaginations can concoct to support their worst fears, however obviously unrealistic.

And there I am, doing exactly that.