food poisoning?

Maybe. And if it is, I know the culprit: yogurt. Or old almonds, one of the two.
This morning I called home and Dad asked, "Do you want us to come get you?" Answer: yes.
But first I'd have to find the strength to walk down the stairs.
The sounds I made last night while throwing up were terrifying. I felt like I'd turned into some sort of ferocious monster HUUUAAAAEEEE, pause for breath, do it all over again, ten times.
I can hear every sound the neighbors make when I'm standing in the bathroom. So you know they heard it, probably thought I was transforming into the Incredible Hulk, or some Indian equivalent.
Every time I get sick in Chennai, the thought strikes me: I could die here.
This morning I couldn't even get the door open to retrieve the Gatorade bottles the driver left for me on the porch. Between getting down the stairs, finding my keys and opening the door, I had to lay down to rest three times.
If I fainted on this marble floor, I would crack my head open for sure, brains everywhere.