Dear Sir:

I write you now because I believe you misplaced the contents of your stomach Tuesday night on the fourth floor Allison men’s bathroom. It is my understanding that the kind cleaning staff took your vomit away, but perhaps you may yet be able to claim it from them. I’m not sure if there is a lost and found for vomit disposed of on the bathroom floor, but that may be something worth looking into.

Now, I’m not interested in pointing fingers when it comes to this matter. I’m certainly no model of gastrointestinal fortitude, especially once hard liquor enters the equation. I get it — Blackout Tuesday is worth celebrating, and I’m sure it was a lot of fun until you vomited on the bathroom floor. I’m not judging you for the decision you made last night.

Yes, you could have held it in for three more feet, at least until you could make it to a bathroom stall. There would have been some courtesy in that if not for the other residents in the hallway, for the poor, beleaguered cleaning staff.

But I’ll say this to you, O anonymous vomiter: you showed real strength of character last night. While others may have hidden their vomit within the safe confines of a garbage can or toilet, you alone had the courage to spill it onto the bathroom tile for everyone to behold.

And make no mistake, sir — almost everyone beheld that particular show of overconsumption.

But no, sir, I cannot judge you for your actions last night. You see, gentle vomiter, we share something in common. I have also vomited before from overconsumption, although I’m sure your tipping-point was much greater than mine. Mine was a mixed drink — clementine-flavored Izze mixed with mango Absolut — followed by an ill-advised shot of Captain. I was young and idealistic, the unfortunate combination of “skinny kid” and “hyperactive gag reflex.”

When I stepped out of the bathroom, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, and found myself questioned by the girls waiting to use the bathroom, what else could I tell them?

“Yeah, I just threw up,” I said.

“Should have chased,” one of them said to me in a told-you-so sort of sing-song.

That was my secret shame, sir. As I sat in the corner, quietly nursing the Mike’s Hard Lemonade offered to me out of pity for my weak constitution, I felt lower than ever before in my life.

Vomiting after too much drink may be a natural reaction, but it is not the sort of thing that does any service to a young man’s pride. Vomiting can bring out the worst in any man — bring tears to his eyes and a dull burn to his throat. Throwing up is too often seen as a sign of weakness.

In hindsight, two drinks do not make for a particularly pathetic rock bottom, especially for my first encounter with intoxicating substances. Two drinks is a very middling pregame, or perhaps what one may be able to consume at any reasonably attended fraternity party. I should not be surprised by the fact that my first experience with alcohol was also my least enjoyable one.

I am glad to say that I have not encountered my vomiting problem since. My tolerance is still low, but it at least allows me a couple of drinks before I feel their effects. Even to this day, however, it would be easy for me to fall prey to this destructive tendency. All it would take would be perhaps one shot too many, a beer too far, an ill-advised glass of wine.

And then there would rest Sam Daub, in front of the toilet, sobbing quietly between heaves. Here is my point, sir: it is easy to feel shame for a natural thing like that. Any lesser man — myself included — might hide from vomiting, might try to deny it.

But not you, sir. You walked out of the bathroom — you were led out of the bathroom, I should say — with your head drooped high. You had no shame, no regret, no disappointment. You vomited like a gentleman, sir, and for that I salute you.

God bless you, nameless resident! May God bless you and your stomach!