18 years, 28 days. Not a bad streak, no matter what you’re talking about. But it came to an end on Saturday night. I threw up. Blew chunks. Vomited. Barfed. Booted. The technicolor yawn. Prayed to the porcelain god. Hurled. 

Puked. 

Worst of all, it wasn’t from drinking, meaning I had to survive the tossing of cookies while I was stone cold sober. That’s some BS right there. Last time I went through this was definitely alcohol related – ringing in the new millennium, which is how I remember the date. 
The last time I experienced calling up Ralph on the big white phone when I was sober I think I was probably five. For all my digestive problems – and there are many – coming out this end is not one of them.  

I’m guessing this is how Cal Ripken felt when he ended his consecutive game streak – accomplished, but sad that it’s over. 

Yeah, I just compared myself to Cal Ripken. I bet he’s never gone 18 years without puking. That’s a damned fine achievement and I’ll stand by it. Well, I knelt by it in the toilet, anyway.