In between bouts of coughing and spitting gobs of semi-living tissue, I actually get some driving done.
Today I almost caused two accidents, both in roundabouts. The second one found me pressing the accelerator and the instructor standing on the brake.
I might have misjudged the speed and distance of a crappy Golf that was speeding, with dry mouth, heart pounding and slight tremors as a result. But with everything taken into account, I’d rather fuck up in a car with a double set of pedals than one without; hopefully I learned some sort of lesson.
My diaphragm and abdominal muscles are so fatigued by now that I can’t cough properly. I hem, which is wholly unbecoming someone as goddamn manly as myself.
I was reading up on tuberculosis, and found the expression “Spes phthisica” which denotes a condition believed peculiar to consumptives in which physical wasting led to euphoric flowering of the passionate and creative aspects of the soul. The quote (and a very good essay on the subject) comes curtesy of Centers for Disease Control.
