The problem with being the dramatic one in your friendship group is that when you are really, throwing-your-guts-up ill, they think you are being dramatic. 

My projectile vomiting began on last Thursday at 10pm, Prague time. My friends and I were walking home after dinner on cobbled streets that were making me question if I could actually walk in a straight line in six-inch heels or whether the streets of England have just been humouring me for all these years.

Prague is filled with 14th-century med-evil architecture, the streets are an amalgam of traditional marketplaces with a Sephora and Starbucks lurking around the corner, moulding it into a land of euphoria. 

The sky was slowly setting into a dark blue shade with sporadically placed transparent clouds and I can only imagine this scenario being more scenic if I didn’t feel like I was going to face plant on a communal pavement out of pure nausea.

I could’ve had food poisoning from dodgy chicken. I don’t know that for sure, I didn’t want to google the symptoms, just in case I really did have food poisoning from dodgy chicken. It was probably safer to live in denial because what doesn’t kill you doesn’t necessarily require a thorough investigation.

On the bright side, if I were to pass out on the street, I would be living up to the stereotype that British tourists are not able to hold their drink. On the downside, I had not been drinking. So on the contrary to Chuck Bass, there would not have been any truth in advertising. 

As we continued to hobble back to our hotel, I thought it was appropriate to start planning out my will and share my plans with all my friends. So one of my friends decided to ask a passer-by where the nearest pharmacist was whilst the rest discreetly googled maps the nearest psychiatrist.

We paused for a moment so everyone could give me the you-can’t-throw-up-in-the-taxi pep-talk after the club in order to trek to the pharmacy.

These numbnuts I call my friends weren’t even acknowledging the fact that death could be on the edge of my horizon. I could be summoned to walk the bridge into the wrath of hell whilst being succumbed by the literal stench of death.

All whilst the stupid deaths theme tune from horrible histories is faintly being played in the background.

The numbnuts paid no sympathy towards my evidently frail demeanour as one of them decided to hoist my hair in a bun on the top of my head with a Primark scrunchie.

So, even in my worst moments, my friends were making sure I was following the major summer fashion trends whilst involuntary and publicly hurling on the pavement.

En route to the pharmacy, a 30-year-old man wearing a purple and black striped shirt and light denim jeans approached us saying that he could help us get to a hospital. So we stopped and asked him for directions.

One of my friends asked for his name and he hesitated before he mumbled “Jacob.”

I feel like I was the only one who thought it was obvious that he didn’t give us his real name. Only an idiot, a liar and a bad con-artist would hesitate when someone asks for their name. I thought it was the latter and suggested making a quick get-away from the man in the bad outfit. I was ignored.

Suddenly, 079 me by Byoung started playing. I assume a dazzled look was painted on my face as I started to look up into the universe and question if this is really the song my subconscious wants to play in the background of my final moments.

Then I realised that the song was Jacob’s ringtone. So now I must conclude that my man Jacob could just be the former, an idiot. Regardless, I wondered if was reasonable to take medical and geographical advice from a grown man whose ringtone is 079 me?

When we got to the pharmacy everything was written in Czech and I could see purple spats of paint everywhere, so I blinked and then blinked again. I caught the attention of the pharmacist and he offered me a seat.

The man said our aura was shitty.

I did wonder if I should inform a professional pharmacist that one of the side effects of food poisoning was diarrhoea. Maybe my shitty aura was simply predicting my future. Immediate and metaphorically long-term.

The next morning I was sure to avoid all dairy products so my morning coffee was black and I was

quickly reminded how much I dislike black coffee.

A frail attempt of cheering me up was made by buying me an ugly fan that I accidentally broke before we got past customs at the airport.

Finally, on the plane ride home I mentally added another reason why I can never get married on the list. This story is bound to surface in at least one of their bridesmaid’s speeches whilst the rest of them try to shotgun who gets to call me dramatic.

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