Inspired to Puke

Oatmeal flakes, popcorn shells and coconut shavings. Preferably not combined.

98% of the food I consume passes between my lips, gets processed by my teeth, moves through my mouth, down my throat, and into my stomach. The above trio shares a distinct trait: fragments get stuck against my gums, between my teeth, or on the walls of my throat. I don't have as much difficulty with coconut, but I understand that's why my sister-in-law complains about the texture.

Popcorn, on the other hand, offers a tricky conundrum. If I'm willing to spend five bucks at a movie theater for a small bucket, must I also splurge another fiver for three pounds of ice and 6 ounces of Dr. Pepper? If I don't, I can guarantee a shard of kernel skin will lodge against my epiglottis or near my uvula. If I resisted conceding at the concessions stand, I can either gag incessantly for the duration of the movie or excuse myself and find the germ incubator known as a water fountain. (I'm not much of a germaphobe, but that's a lot of kids licking metal...) My other (and usually chosen) option is to perform a popcornotomy on myself, fishing around my mouth with my finger-tweezers, hoping I don't trigger my hypersensitive upchuck reflex. (Notice I don't refer to it as a gag reflex; I wish I could stop at that stage.)

So why do I persist eating the threesome of tormenting foods? I don't like hot drinks or spicy foods, and even the thought of an eggshell in my french toast can ruin my entire appetite. It isn't like popcorn or oatmeal is a fine cuisine that'll cause me to wake in the middle of the night with cold sweats, yearning for the flavor. (Maybe coconut, but as I mentioned, I've no problems there.) I don't know.

In life, 'tis best to leave some mysteries unanswered.

(Ooh. I feel like I just wrote a daily devotional, complete with horrible illustration that doesn't relate to anything. I'll stop here.)