I should really find something interesting to write about one of these days.

My bronchitis appears to be almost gone. I've finished the antibiotic carpet bombing of my lungs, and as a result I'm only occasionally coughing up things that I'll not describe to you for decency's sake. The deep, hacking cough that makes bystanders wonder if I should be put in an isolation chamber hasn't reared its gravelly head in twenty-four hours or therabouts, so I should be in the clear. I'm still kind of worn out from the combination of drugs I'm on so I haven't had much of anything to write lately which hasn't consisted of either bitching about falling …

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That coughing you hear isn't from consumption.

At first scratch, it would appear that respiratory troubles are fast becoming part and parcel of my winters in the DC metroplex. Two weeks ago I was fighting off a cold, and rather successfully, or so I thought. Last week I developed a persistant dry cough that now has has my cow-orkers wondering if I have tuberculosis, keeps Lyssa awake at night (even if I sleep on the couch), and busily ties knots in the muscles of my neck and stomach. It isn't one of those coughs that clear your lungs and sound disgusting, but at least mean that you …

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