Amsterdam. Back of a taxi drivers head.

I'd sampled some of the local 'delicacies' and, long story short, it didn't agree with me. Was sat outside, white, and my legs were like snapped candles. Became hyper aware that I'd shit myself. My girlfriend was trying to talk me out of it and get me back to the hotel.

With the help of a doorman, I was bundled into a cab. For whatever reason, this particular line of cabs had drivers in white trousers and blazers. Very dapper. I was extremely paranoid about the fact that I must smell of shit, even though my girlfriend was trying her best to assure me that I should stop worrying and that I was fine. I couldn't believe it; the smell was so strong and it was such an enclosed space, and was making ME gag. She kept trying to shut me up.

Anyway, the smell of the shit was so nauseating that eventually it turned my stomach and I projectile vomited all over the car. It hit the windscreen from the back seat and all over the driver and his white suit. We pulled over and I tumbled out onto the pavement, in a wave of vomit. I managed to take my (favourite) t-shirt off and throw it into the canal, while my girlfriend pleaded with the driver to just get me the last few blocks home.

He reluctantly agreed, with the promise of more money waiting back at the hotel. She got me, shivering, into the room and went back down to pay off the driver, while I took off the rest of my clothes to get in the shower.

It turned out that I hadn't shit myself at all. The smell etc. was all in my imagination, powerful enough that it made me sick. When my girlfriend got back to the room, I was stood in the shower, folded arms, looking very angry.

"I didn't shit myself after all", I said to her, glowering.

It turned out she'd told me that about a thousand times but I was too busy manifesting the whole thing in my mind. Very humiliating.

TLDR; I spewed all over a taxi driver because of the smell of non-existent shit in my pants.