beandelphiki

"You sound miserable," my mother observed this morning.

Yes, well, that would be because I feel miserable. I leaned against the door jamb and said, "I don't even want to know what I'm coughing up and swallowing back down."

"Phlegm!" she said, as if I'd just said I were dying for the answer. "And don't swallow it back down - get it out. That's your body trying to get rid of the infection. Take a box of Kleenex to your room."

"Right." Although I was pretty sure I wasn't going to do it, not having any particular desire to see what the chunky stuff I'm coughing up looks like. I did make a few half-hearted attempts to cough stuff out over the toilet and got a few pieces of yellow goo and a bucket of saliva for my trouble. Fuck that.

I mean, I'm swallowing it, right? That means it's going to my stomach, right? That means it can come out the other end eventually, right?

Right?

Ugh, WHEN IS THIS GOING TO END? How many days has it been now? Four? Five? Six?

I don't even know what day today is.