WE’RE in paradise. And I’m puking my guts out.

“Was it something you ate?” Super Preppy asks from the main room of the gorgeous resort where we’re staying in Arraial d’Ajuda, Bahia, in southern Brazil.

I wish. Sadly, this is an illness that is pure nerves with a healthy sprinkling of regret.

The worst part? The day before had been beyond amazing.

Journeying along the beach looking for a local “medicinal” mud bath, we accidentally overshoot the location and end up walking an extra 17 kilometers.

Seventeen long kilometers.

“What time does it get dark around here?” I ask SP nervously. He looks at me in the way I’ve seen him look at girls who are dumb and says, “I’m going to guess right now.”

The jokes about “Turistas”-style organ harvesting become fewer and fewer as the lights around us disappear completely. Suddenly, we see a scummy hotel in the distance.

That’s when out of nowhere Cujo the Killer Dog bounds out. I fall backwards onto SP.

“Let’s get out of here,” I say, squeezing his hand for dear life.

And then, somewhat miraculously, on the horizon appears a beautiful, bustling little town. It is Trancoso. In the flood of streetlamps, it becomes clear that the community we have reached is a hilariously upscale arts-centered community.

“Wow,” I say to SP, “it’s like you have Hamptons-dar.”

One 45-minute cab ride from the town of Trancoso later, we’re back at the resort. It’s 2:30 a.m., we’re exhausted, and that’s when the inexplicable happens. My brain kicks into a nasty case of Loneliness Mode.

Oh, you know LM. It’s when you spontaneously realize that as close as you feel to a man, at the end of the day you’re still completely alone in this world and all of the hand-holding in Brazil does not a real commitment make.

I blame it on Cujo.

“What’s wrong?” SP asks, exhausted. The tears are streaming down my cheeks, and the less I try to cry, the more I do.

“It’s just . . .” I say, and then tell him what never should be told: the secret dialogue of the Inner Chick.

“Mandy,” he says, trying to be kind, but also justifiably annoyed, “I really don’t have the mental capacity for this right now.”

My heart sinks. My stomach sinks farther. I feel like I suddenly have dengue fever.

The next morning, I am puking my guts out.

SP leaves me to recoup but comes home early in the evening. He finds me on the hammock, where I’m sipping coconut water and trying to remember all the usual positivity pap I force others to listen to all the time. But I’m still shaking. I’m still weak.

“I missed you,” he says, giving me a pair of earrings he got from one of the aggressive Urchins with Attitude who are everywhere.

I say nothing. I refuse to open up.

“I really missed you today,” he says, pulling me toward him.

“Adonde mud?” I joke lightly. “Adonde Cujo the Killer Dog?”

He laughs, I laugh, and after a few minutes he looks at me.

“What time does it get dark around here?”

I know, obviously.

But Trancoso isn’t that far away.

mstadtmiller@nypost.com