I woke up at 3 a.m. last night to realize the not-so-fresh sushi I'd eaten earlier was having a despedida in my estomago de gringa. At this point I am so pitifully familiar food poisoning that I mechanically know what to do—even at that hour, when I can barely remember my name. Charcoal pills (sounds weird but they absorb toxins), a tall glass of water and the wastebasket huddle by my bed. That night was truly maravillosa.
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