Satisfied, Unhealthy. Unhealthily Satisfied?

I just finished my very first college paper. It was on Jorge Luis Borge's short story The Immortal, probably the best thing I've read since I got here. I took myself away from the productivity vortex that is the desk in my dormitory and trekked across campus with Steven K. to the Tech Center (open twenty-four hours a day...) This was after we saw Stereolab and Atlas Sound. I like Atlas Sound, never heard Stereolab. Vice versa for Steve K. We fell asleep two different times; myself during Stereolab, for the bulk of their set, and Steve during Atlas Sound for the bulk of his. You could've gathered that, I guess. Anyway, yeah, I had to write this paper and I did and yeah I'm satisfied. Something strange happened afterward. I went into 7-11 to see if they had headphones. They didn't so I left, yeah, duh, and then, not so duh, starting coughing and throwing up into their trashcan. Was it my sickening self-satisfaction? Was it frustration stemming from lack of conversation? Was it something that I shouldnt've been smoking? Was it the travel coffee mug Wyatt gave me our first weekend here? Was it the fucking Wawa hot dog (I hope not)? It didn't matter because the remains of the chili dogs I vomited on (on, not up. Wawa's ground beek/pork/mystery meat doesn't suck as much as "the Sev's.") may as well have been vomit anyway. I'd better go brush my teeth.