under control

I have a problem. It does not involve, drugs, alcohol, sex, or violence, at least the problem that I am thinking of doesn’t (the law may disagree with this statement). I have a problem with motion, as in moving, physically moving. Despite my cat-like agility I have been in many accidents, I currently owe some insurance company 500-ish greenbacks for breaking some old man’s windshield after being hit, or bumped rather, by another car (I don’t agree with their finding of it being my fault and I don’t know if I will pay). I have broken more bones than anyone else I know, along with the slew of scars and brain damage from head trauma, but this is not the moving problem that I speaking of either.
I am talking about my extreme motion sickness. Yesterday I spent seven hours on the ocean deep sea fishing. After meeting my brother and parents at Newport Oregon on Saturday night, it was concluded that we would wake up at 6-fucking-thirty in the morning head out on this journey. Don’t get me wrong, I was all for it. I had quickly forgotten about all the hours of puking/almost puking on people while on, planes, trains, roller coaster’s (not just kiddy rides), cars, the occasional tram and most critically boats. The last time I went on such a trip I think I spent a good ten minutes not barfing my guts out, swearing that I would never eat another poppy seed muffin (it was my breakfast at the time). All of this did not seem so bad while at the beach looking at the swelling abyss of the sea. Once on the open ocean all this came flooding back as I pitched from aft to port or whatever the fuck the left and right of boats are. The Captain was much too interested in my parents dog, Sadie, (how she, with 1½ inch long legs, looked like a wolverine and he concluded that she could defiantly be trained to be vicious) to even care about my blight. Among the other patrons of the craft where some hicks and a large black family, who kept me going for awhile with their banter about catching the biggest fish, that is until I puked all over the place. I was positioned at the very front of the boat for the entirety of the trip. Feet spread wide, leaning into the rail with both hands, trying to keep my eyes on the horizon. Needless to say, everyone kinda cleared to the back of the boat. By the end I had puked up my breakfast of cinnamon roll and lots of orange juice (now that I think about it may not have been such a good idea) while catching 6-ish fish. I say -ish because I was not sure what was happening the whole time.
After reaching solid ground I had to eat, not eating for hours always does me in, and throwing up what little I had for bfast made me famished. It seemed obvious at the time for me, a starving, sea sick, vegetarian to order a salmon sandwich. I was not disappointed. The restaurant was the Rouge Brew Pub, and I do not suggest taking your mother to such a place, or maybe just my mother. It started off bad, we were sat in the back, near the restroom. Obviously we had to move. There was then the water fiasco, the wine problem, food debacle, the ceiling fan embarrassment, and then she viewed the restroom itself. Disaster. And so we left. My salmon sandwich lunch almost went the way of my breakfast on the drive home. Almost. I followed the advice that any alcoholic (you know the ones with the real problems) would tell you on the situation 'the only sure fire way to *hick* beat the upchuck is *hick* to pass out'.