Vomit Inducing Quotes

Giving someone a jibe, then having them internalize it, felt awful: the conversational equivalent of going for a comedic burp and accidentally inducing yourself to vomit.

One thing that pisses me off royally is hearing drug companies denounced as the devil. I don't like giant corporations (or, in the words of Spalding Gray, "the big indifferent machine") any more than anyone else, but I really don't like wanting to kill myself. A person who denounces psychopharmaceuticals based on a political agenda is a person who has never lain crumpled in a ball in the closet, sobbing uncontrollably, face covered in Sharpie, throat raw from induced vomiting. Accordingly, that person should be thankful and shut the hell up.

Do you know what I am going to tell you, he said with his wry mouth, a pint of plain is your only man. Notwithstanding this eulogy, I soon found that the mass of plain porter bears an unsatisfactory relation to its toxic content and I subsequently became addicted to brown stout in bottle, a drink which still remains the one that I prefer the most despite the painful and blinding fits of vomiting which a plurality of bottles has often induced in me.

A person who denounces psychopharmaceuticals based on a political agenda is a person who has never lain crumpled in a ball in the closet, sobbing uncontrollably, face covered in Sharpie, throat raw from induced vomiting. Accordingly, that person should be thankful and shut the hell up.

Among a list of measures effective for inducing vomiting, she included: “Injections of tobacco into the anus through a pipe stem.

The thought of not being in love with Oliver wasn't even vomit-inducing. It was just...unapproachable from any angle.

Wait,' he says, taking a step toward me. 'I want to see you again.' I groan, too exasperated for surprise. I am standing here in a borrowed blanket, boots, and mall-bought underwear. I am smeared in soil, and I have just made a fool of myself. 'Why?' He looks at me as though he sees something else entirely. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes me stand up a little straighter, despite the dirt. 'Because you're like a story that hasn't happened yet. Because I want to see what you will do. I want to be part of the unfolding of the tale.

We need a distraction, an excuse to leave. Something believable, but not too disconcerting … What is that?” Steris had removed a small vial of something from her purse. “Syrup of ipecac and saltroot,” she said. “To induce vomiting.” He blinked in shock. “But why…” “I had assumed they might try to poison us,” Steris said. “Though I considered it only a small possibility, it’s best to be prepared.” She laughed uncomfortably. Then she downed the whole thing. Wax reached for her arm, but too late. He watched in horror as she stoppered the empty vial and tucked it into her purse. “You might want to get out of the splash radius, so to speak.” “But … Steris!” he said. “You’ll end up humiliating yourself.” She closed her eyes. “Dear Lord Waxillium. Earlier, you spoke of the power of not caring about what others thought of you. Do you remember?” “Yes.” “Well, you see,” she said, opening her eyes and smiling, “I’m trying to practice that skill.” She proceeded to vomit all over the table.

Every single emergency room in every single hospital adjoining or near a college campus stocks extra supplies on Thursday nights — rape kits for the sexual assault victims, IV fluids for those who are dehydrated from alcohol-induced vomiting, and blood for drunk driving accidents.”11

Dr Stewart Wolf took the placebo effect to the limit. He took two women who were suffering with nausea and vomiting, one of them pregnant, and told them he had a treatment which would improve their symptoms. In fact he passed a tube down into their stomachs (so that they wouldn’t taste the revolting bitterness) and administered ipecac, a drug that which should actually induce nausea and vomiting. Not only did the patients’ symptoms improve, but their gastric contractions—which ipecac should worsen—were reduced. His results suggest—albeit it in a very small sample—that a drug could be made to have the opposite effect to what you would predict from the pharmacology, simply by manipulating people’s expectations. In this case, the placebo effect outgunned even the pharmacological influences. More

I begin with the test tube labeled, with a red Sharpie marker, "Assimilation." The smell alone can make anyone lose some, if not all, sense of consciousness. The smell takes me back to a time in my vida when assimilation led to many bewildering, aching experiences that seemed to dis-member me through the infiltration of my veins with poison and marginalization, inducing me to vomit my cultura and lead my life as a vendida.

I received an urgent e-mail from a high school student named Makenzie Hatfield of Charleston, West Virginia. She informed me of a group of parents who were attempting to suppress the teaching of two of my novels, The Prince of Tides and Beach Music. I heard rumors of this controversy as I was completing my latest filthy, vomit-inducing work. These controversies are so commonplace in my life that I no longer get involved. But my knowledge of mountain lore is strong enough to know the dangers of refusing to help a Hatfield of West Virginia. I also do not mess with McCoys.

Walking into a bookshop is a depressing thing. It’s not the pretentious twats, browsing books as part of their desirable lifestyle. It’s not the scrubby members of staff serving at the counter: the pseudo-hippies and fucking misfits. It’s not the stink of coffee wafting out from somewhere in the building, a concession to the cult of the coffee bean. No, it’s the books. I could ignore the other shit, decide that maybe it didn’t matter too much, that when consumerism meets culture, the result is always going to attract wankers and everything that goes with them. But the books, no, they’re what make your stomach sink and that feeling of dark syrup on the brain descend. Look around you, look at the shelves upon shelves of books – for years, the vessels of all knowledge. We’re part of the new world now, but books persist. Cheap biographies, pulp fiction; glossy covers hiding inadequate sentiments. Walk in and you’re surrounded by this shit – to every side a reminder that we don’t want stimulation anymore, we want sedation. Fight your way through the celebrity memoirs, pornographic cook books, and cheap thrills that satisfy most and you get to the second wave of vomit-inducing product: offerings for the inspired and arty. Matte poetry books, classics, the finest culture can provide packaged and wedged into trendy coverings, kidding you that you’re buying a fashion accessory, not a book. But hey, if you can stomach a trip further into the shop, you hit on the meatier stuff – history, science, economics – provided they can stick ‘pop.’ in front of it, they’ll stock it. Pop. psychology, pop. art, pop. life. It’s the new world – we don’t want serious anymore, we want nuggets of almost-useful information. Books are the past, they’re on the out. Information is digital now; bookshops, they’re somewhere between gallery and museum.

Who has it,” Syphon snapped. As everyone “Has what’d” him, he wrenched around and glared into the back seat. “The Jolly Rancher. Who’s got the fucking Jolly Rancher?” Cue the eye contact between everybody in the van. “That fake watermelon smell triggers my gag reflex,” Syphon bit out. “And I get carsick which is why I have to drive. So if the person who’s sucking on that red square of vomit-inducing nasty doesn’t spit it the fuck out now, I’m going to make sure I throw up in their lap.” Pause. Longer pause. And then Zypher cursed, turned his head… and spit the candy right out— Onto the window he’d just put up. Where it stuck like a Post-it Note. As everyone in the van fell into a chorus of Ewwwwwwws, the bastard picked the thing off, put down the window, and flicked it out into the bushes. “You happy, Penelope,” he muttered as he reclosed the window. “Now, do you want to take a Tums and put a hot compress on your forehead, or can we get on with this?

Be all right, Nina willed silently, hoping her thoughts could somehow cut through the air, speed over the waters of the Ketterdam harbors, and reach her friend. Stay safe and whole and wait for us. Nina hadn’t been on Vellgeluk when Van Eck had taken Inej hostage. She’d still been trying to purge the parem from her body, caught in the haze of suffering that had begun on the voyage from Djerholm. She told herself to be grateful for the memory of that misery, every shaking, aching, vomiting minute of it. The shame of Matthias witnessing it all, holding back her hair, dabbing her brow, restraining her as gently as he could as she argued, cajoled, screamed at him for more parem. She made herself remember every terrible thing she’d said, every wild pleasure offered, each insult or accusation she’d hurled at him. You enjoy watching me suffer. You want me to beg, don’t you? How long have you been waiting to see me like this? Stop punishing me, Matthias. Help me. Be good to me and I’ll be good to you. He’d absorbed it all in stoic silence. She clutched tight to those memories. She needed them as vivid and bright and cringe-inducing as possible to fight her hunger for the drug. She never wanted to be like that again.

[Vitellius's] sins were luxury and cruelty. He divided his feasts into three, sometimes into four a day, breakfast,​ luncheon, dinner, and a drinking bout; and he was readily able to do justice to all of them through his habit of inducing vomiting. ... When his mother died, he was suspected of having forbidden her being given food when she was ill, because a woman of the Chatti, in whom he believed as he would in an oracle, prophesied that he would rule securely and for a long time, but only if he should survive his parent. .... He declared from the steps of the Palace before his assembled soldiers, that he withdrew from the rule which had been given him against his will; but when all cried out against this, he postponed the matter, and after a night had passed, went at daybreak to the rostra in mourning garb and with many tears made the same declaration, but from a written document. When the people and soldiers again interrupted him and besought him not to lose heart, vying with one another in promising him all their efforts in his behalf, he by a sudden onslaught drove Sabinus and the rest of the Flavians, into the Capitol. Then he set fire to the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus and destroyed them, viewing the battle and the fire from the house of Tiberius, where he was feasting. ... At last on the Stairs of Wailing​ he was tortured for a long time and then despatched and dragged off with a hook to the Tiber. He met his death, along with his brother and his son, in the fifty-seventh year of his age, fulfilling the prediction of those who had declared from an omen which befell him at Vienna, as we have stated,​ that he was destined to fall into the power of some man of Gaul. For he was slain by Antonius Primus, a leader of the opposing faction, who was born at Tolouse and in his youth bore the surname Becco, which means a rooster's beak.

Linda Bacon exposes some of the rarely mentioned side effects of weight-loss surgery in Health at Every Size, listing a shocking eighty-two symptoms, including lifelong vitamin deficiency, loss of bowel control, consistent vomiting and excruciating pain after eating, hormone imbalances, infection, kidney and liver failure, nerve and brain damage, and often, weight regain. Bacon cites further studies that found that 4.6 percent of bariatric surgery patients died within a year. She argues that weight-loss surgery “would be more appropriately labelled ‘high-risk disease-inducing cosmetic surgery’ than a health-enhancing procedure.

James Young Simpson studied medicine in Edinburgh, Scotland, graduating in 1832. By the mid-1840s, Simpson had climbed the ranks to become a professor of midwifery in Edinburgh, relieving the pain of childbirth with ether, like his American colleagues. But Simpson wasn’t satisfied. He wanted a more potent agent, one that was pleasant to inhale, worked quicker, and didn’t cause vomiting upon awakening. He settled on chloroform, a combination of hydrogen, carbon, and chlorine. On November 4, 1847, Simpson invited two of his assistants, James Duncan and George Keith, and some of his friends, including a Ms. Petrie, to a dinner party. When the dinner was over, he asked his guests to sniff a variety of volatile gases, including chloroform. Duncan and Keith immediately lost consciousness, falling under the table. Ms. Petrie also lost consciousness, but not before declaring, “I’m an angel! I’m an angel! Oh, I’m an angel!” The next day, without animal studies, clinical trials, or federal approval, Simpson administered chloroform to a woman during a particularly painful delivery. “I placed her under the influence of chloroform,” recalled Simpson, “by moistening half a teaspoon of the liquid onto a pocket handkerchief [and placing it] over her mouth and nostrils. The child was expelled in about twenty minutes. When she awoke, [the mother] observed to me that she had enjoyed a very comfortable sleep.” The parents were so elated that they named their daughter Anesthesia. On November 10, 1847, Simpson told a group of colleagues what he had done. Ten days later, he described his experience in a medical journal, claiming that chloroform was more potent and easier to administer than nitrous oxide, and quicker to induce unconsciousness and less flammable than ether. Now the entire medical world knew about it.

After a while, they leave you alone, curled around your wounds. They always do. It gives you time to think about what they have done to you, more importantly what else they have not yet done. The fevered imagining of what is still to come is almost as potent a tool in their hands as the heated irons and blades themselves. When you hear them returning, the echo of footsteps induces such fear that you vomit up what little bile you have left in your stomach.

Wait, when would you need to induce vomiting?” “When you’ve taken more than the necessary amount of poison, for example.

cause of death as “emetine cardiotoxicity due to or as a consequence of anorexia nervosa.” The anatomical summary listed pulmonary edema and congestion (usually caused by heart failure) first and anorexia second. Third was cachexia, which usually indicates extreme weight loss and an apparent lack of nutrition. The finding of emetine cardiotoxicity (ipecac poisoning) revealed that Karen had poisoned herself with ipecac syrup, a well-known emetic commonly recommended to induce vomiting in cases of overdose or poisoning. A letter detailing National Medical Services’s lab findings was composed March 23, 1983. After testing both blood and liver, it was determined that 0.48 micrograms/g emetine, “the major alkaloidal constituent of ipecac,” was present in the liver. “In the present case,” they explained, “the finding of 0.5 micrograms emetine/g, with none detected in the blood, is consistent with residua of the drug after relatively remote cessation of its chronic use.

I heard a noise from my bedroom and jumped, almost knocking over the goblet intended for Narian, and spilling some of the sleep-inducing drug London had given me. I brushed it over the mantel’s edge and into the barren fireplace where it would not be seen, reminding myself to behave normally. “Are you all right?” Narian had entered the parlor and was scrutinizing me from across the room. “Of course,” I said, forcing a cheerful tone. His eyes darted around the room’s perimeter. “You just…look pale.” “There’s hardly any light. So how can you tell--am I glowing?” He smiled, relaxing a little. “Sit down and have some wine with me,” I invited, moving to the sofa. He joined me, and I offered him the tainted drink, which he accepted with a puzzled expression. “You’re shaking, Alera.” “I’m cold.” “It’s quite warm.” “But the evening temperatures drop quickly now that summer’s sultriness has passed. The wine helps.” I took a sip from my goblet, deliberately stilling my hand. “So would a quilt,” he pointed out. “You detest wine.” I laughed uncomfortably, trying not to recoil at the flavor of the drink. Narian was taking his time. Did he suspect there was something wrong? He knew there was something wrong with me, yes, but perhaps the wine smelled off and it had alerted him. London had given me an abundance of the herb, whatever it was, and I had used it all. Narian let go of his reservations and lifted the goblet to his lips, and nausea hit me full force. London believed Narian to be nothing more than a dangerous weapon, one that would fight against us, and he was right that I was the only one around whom Narian would lower his guard. Would London, thinking of the greater good, be willing to use me to poison and kill his enemy? “Stop!” I cried, reaching out to grab the goblet and spilling wine all over the rug. Narian leaped to his feet, tensed for a fight, and I burst into tears. “Alera, what is it?” he asked, not sympathetic, but demanding and urgent. I was gasping, unable to catch my breath and feeling like I might vomit. “It’s London. He asked me to drug you. He said I had to do it, for Hytanica.” “Where is he?” “I don’t know. He left. He said their plan was to kill the sentries on the wall and close the city. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I wasn’t sure to whom I was apologizing, or even for what exactly, but the guilt was close to unbearable. I put my hands over my face, my heart splintering at the thought of every one of the night’s possible outcomes. Narian ran to the door, and I summoned the strength to follow him. We flew down the Grand Staircase, where he snapped orders to the Cokyrian guards at the doors. “Rouse Rava and alert the soldiers on duty to monitor the city walls. There is a rebel party waiting to strike and I want them caught, now. Bring them here alive.” The guards left to carry out his instructions, and Narian turned to me. “Alera, I will do everything I can to protect the people you care about, you know that. But I will not be focused unless I know you are safe. Please, stay here.” I nodded, despite my desire to do anything except stay put, and he kissed me deeply right in the middle of the Grand Entry Hall, without a care for secrecy. “Be safe,” I murmured, watching him go.

game. A Kentucky entrepreneur hooked up a version of Wolfenstein to virtual reality goggles and brought in five hundred dollars a day at the Kentucky State Fair. But players didn’t need virtual reality goggles to feel immersed. In fact, the sense of immersion was so real that many began complaining of motion sickness. Calls were coming in even at the Apogee office saying that people were throwing up while playing the game. Wolfenstein vomit stories became items of fascination online. Theories abounded. Some players thought the game’s animation was so smooth that it tricked the brain into thinking it was moving in a real space. Other gamers thought it had something to do with the “jerkiness” of the graphics, which induced the feeling of seasickness. Some felt it was simply disorienting because there was no acceleration involved; it was like going from zero to sixty at light speed. Gamers even exchanged tips for how to play without losing one’s Doritos.

Graham went to the gym to work out, as he does almost every day. There's a pile of unfolded clothes on the couch beside me and a bag of cheese puffs in my lap. I love it when he goes to the gym, if only because I can be the massive sloth I naturally am in peace. If he were here, he'd be eyeing up my laundry and staring at the edible garbage in my lap and on my fingers, internally freaking out over the possibility of powdery cheese getting on the furniture. One hand in the bag, one hand wrapped around the stem of my wine glass—this is my idea of perfection. 'Girls Chase Boys' by Ingrid Michaelson is presently keeping me company from the stereo system. When my phone rings from where it resides on the back of the couch, I jump and send the bag flying. Orange confetti falls to the floor and I swallow, knowing I am so dead if Graham walks in the door right now. “What?” is my less than friendly greeting. “What'd you do?” How does he know me so well? I guess because he made me. “I just let off a bomb of cheese puffs. Although, technically, I'm blaming it on you since it was your phone call that scared me into dumping the bag over.” “Your mother is knitting again.” Eyes glued to the orange blobs on the pale carpet, I reply, “Oh? I'm sure it's marvelous, whatever it is.” Are they seeping into the carpet as I watch, even now becoming an irremovable part of it? Graham is going to majorly freak out over this. “Looks like a yellow condom.” I choke on nothing. “I have to go, Dad.” He grunts a goodbye. I fling the phone away and dive to my knees, hurriedly scooping up the abused deliciousness into my hands. Of course this is when Graham decides to come home—when my ass is in the air facing the door and I look like I'm eating processed food off the floor. I groan and let my head fall forward, smashing a cheese puff with my forehead. He doesn't say anything for a really, really long time, and I refuse to move or look at him, so it gets sort of awkward. “Never thought I'd come home to this scene. Ever.” Just to rile him up, I shove a cheese puff in my mouth and chomp away. “I can't believe you just ate that!” I get to my feet as I pop another into my mouth. “Mmm.” Graham's face is twisted with horror, his backpack dropping to the floor. Sweat clings to him in a delicious way, his hair damp with it. “Do you know how dirty the carpet is?” “You clean it almost every day. It can't be that dirty.” “I don't get everything out of it!” he exclaims, slapping the remaining puffs from my hands. “Go brush your teeth. No. Wait. Induce vomiting. Immediately.” I look at him and laugh. “You're crazy.” “Just...go drink water or something. I'll clean this up.” “I am perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes.” He just looks at me. “Okay, so not as well as you, but still.” He remains mute. “Fine.” I toss my hands in the air and carefully walk over the splotches of orange beneath me. As I leave the living room, I pause by a framed photograph of a lemon tree, sliding it off-center on the wall. “I saw that,” he calls after me. “Just giving you something to do!” I smirk as I saunter into the bathroom. “I'll give you something to do.” I cock my head at that, wondering if that was meant to be sexual or not. I'm thinking not. I flip the light switch up in the bathroom and scream. Even with the distance between us, I can hear him laughing. The mirror is covered in what looks like blood, spelling out R – E – D. I put my face close to it and sniff. Ketchup. What a waste of a good condiment. “Not funny!” “So funny!

Red: Most yang, warm, and stimulating. Produces heat. Stimulates vital energy and circulation of the blood. Stimulates sensory nervous systems and energizes the five basic senses. Stimulates the healing of wounds without pus. Used in treatment of chronic infections. Too much red leads to anger and hyperactivity. Orange: Gentle yang, tonifies. Stimulates appetite, relieves cramps and spasms, increases blood pressure, induces vomiting, relieves gas, builds bones. When used with blue, regulates the endocrine system. Stimulates joy, optimism, and enthusiasm. Yellow: Yang, and the brightest of all colors. Strengthens motor nervous system and metabolism, and aids conditions of the glandular, lymphatic, and digestive systems. Stimulates intellectual functions; boosts cheerfulness and confidence. Green: Neutral yin. Slightly cooling. Treats conditions of the lungs, eyes, diabetes, musculoskeletal and inflammatory joint problems, and ulcers. Is antibacterial and aids in detoxification. Calms, soothes, and balances. Blue: Yin or cool. Relaxes body and mind, reduces fever, congestion, itching, irritation, and pain. Treats high blood pressure, burns, inflammations with pus and diseases involving heat. Contracts tissues and muscles. Calms and tranquilizes when used on the pituitary and pineal acupoints. Helpful for insomnia, phobias, and endocrine imbalances. Not indicated for depression as it is a melancholy color. Violet: Most yin color. Aids the spleen, reduces irritability, and balances the right brain. When combined with yellow, increases lymph production, controls hunger, and balances the nervous system. Acts on the unconscious.35 Complementary Colors The complementary color pairs are: red-green, orange-blue, and yellow-violet. Together, these colors balance yin and yang. For example, red might stimulate the blood and improve circulation while green calms conditions creating stress. Blue might assuage pain while orange lifts fear or depression causing tension. Yellow will strengthen the nervous system while violet calms it with a meditative state.

There were four ‘humours’, choler, sanguine, black bile and yellow bile, which in the ideal man were perfectly balanced. It was the task of the expert physician to adjust any imbalance. This may explain the fondness of medieval doctors, and their successors for generations to come, for blood-letting: ridding the body of an excess of blood could do nothing but good. ‘Purging’ by laxatives could be useful too, and drugs to induce vomiting.

Are you feeling better?” he asked. “Not really, “she answered hoarsely, her throat still raw from the vomiting the good doctor had induced, “Something like a wrung out dishrag.” “Yes, that’s pretty much how you look,” he agreed with a grin.

Laksa curry, did you say? That is a Southeast Asian dish known for its exceptionally slippery noodles. And I expect squid ink was used to give the roux this black color." "But this utterly repulsive and vomit-inducing stench! Don't tell me you used-" "Yes. It's Kusaya." "I KNEW IT! What kind of garbage does this girl think goes in food?!" KUSAYA Salted dried fish, it originated in the Izu Islands. Blueback fish, like mackerel or flying fish, are soaked in a salty, sticky brine called Kusaya Jiru and then sun dried. IT REEKS. "Just grilling the stuff is enough to get you a pile of complaints from all your neighbors!" "Ugh. Boiling it down makes the stench even more repugnant." "This is my special handmade Kusaya! I used flying fish and mahi-mahi... ... and then soaked them in Kusaya Jiru I carefully, preciously refined over and over!

A madman came to me and accused me of killing god. Killing god! I told him gently that god cannot be killed. He came closer to me, hurling accusations, and I could smell alcohol on his breath. I then told him that the god he spoke of was in the bottle that he had just emptied, that he had drank down his god, that his god was now inside him. He was so struck by my words that his lips started to quiver, and his face changed its colour. He moved aside on the pavement and started to prod his uvula to induce vomiting. When he looked at the contents of his regurgitation, he was surprised to see that there was no god, not in the smallest morsels. As his saliva hung from his mouth, he started screaming: “It’s I who have killed god; woe be upon me,” and left the pavement in tears.

So, at your puppy’s first veterinary visit, ask the doctor for a recommended method for inducing vomiting.

A ubiquitous problem faced by our patients is that they feel they are too heavy. This leads to attempts to diet which, associated with over-exercising, may lead to major weight loss and anorexia nervosa. Any degree of food restriction may trigger the body’s natural mechanisms, which counter the reduction in nutrition. These include thinking about food and feeling hungry, and the thoughts can become pervasive and last all day, sometimes even entering dreams. These responses are perfectly natural and act as important survival mechanisms which lead a hungry person to go in search of food. The more extreme the restriction, the more pronounced are the food preoccupations. If weight does go down, it is possible that the preoccupations and urges to eat may be even worse. Imagine someone in this state who eats a sweet treat. The food preoccupations become focused on the treat and expand into an insatiable urge to eat, which grows until satisfied. The degree of restriction and probably the degree of being underweight seem to determine the amount of food consumed and before long the patient is in the grip of an eating binge. Initially the satisfaction of the urge to eat can be pleasurable, but after a time, as more and more food is consumed, the patients become increasingly regretful and guilty, and these thoughts usually predominate in the aftermath. There then arises an urgent need to get rid of the food and reverse or at least mitigate the nutritional impact of the binge, and the patient may go to the toilet and put her fingers down her throat in order to induce vomiting. Huge relief accompanied by regret and guilt at the behaviour often accompanies this. The whole process of restriction, bingeing and vomiting with alternating need, satisfaction guilt and relief can become habitual and, some say, addictive.

Alkaloids develop in potato tubers exposed to light, causing green discoloration. Ingestion induces acute vomiting and anticholinesterase-like activity.