The octopus in my stomach began its ascent up my reluctant esophagus. I scratched at my bulging throat, a fruitless attempt to claw open an early exit. It squirmed out of my mouth in front of everyone at Thanksgiving dinner. Auntie was in the middle of praising the cranberry sauce. Mother fainted. Father sipped his scotch. I must have looked like Cthulhu vomiting. The confused cephalopod bounced off my plate and fell to the floor. There it dried out and died. I wondered if it was a male or a female. I stumbled to the computer and Googled octopus reproduction. And learned a female lays tens of thousands of eggs. I burped. I felt strange.