I am getting over a cold, which ended for all intents and purposes more than a week ago. It was a doozy. Fever and chills for a couple days -- since when do colds come with fevers -- accompanied by constant nose running and aches. Now the cold is gone, yet its fingerprints remain because every time I cough really hard, I cough up some projectile phlegm that occasionally jumps out of my mouth and onto a Kleenex, making me flush with joy.
It's the same feeling I get after an excellent, bowl-filling trip to the bathroom, and gives me a real sense of accomplishment, that I've extracted a disgusting foreign substance from my body. Here was this disgusting gunk that was fastened to my lungs, and my body triumphantly rejected it. Sometimes I stare at the goop after the extraction and regard it with awe -- a vanquished enemy that fought the good fight before bowing to the better opponent.
I probably should go to the doctor and get an antibiotic to take care of the lingering after-effects, but I just don't have the heart for it. I know my time with the projectile phlegm is short, and I want to cherish every bit of it as long as I can.