"Oh, look," said the Universe disapprovingly. "Tata is happy again. Better fix that." And so I fell, once again, into the throes of a truly terrible cold. My third for the year, and how truly horrible at that that I finally dragged my lazy bollocks to the doctor. To which, adoring V quipped as we stepped into the waiting area of the Las Piñas Medical Center OPD, "You're 35% cured! Going to the doctor just speeds things up."
Coughing incessantly, contending with mild headaches and a stuffed nose have made me philosophical: I can't blame the bug for wreaking havoc in my body. The little critter, like all of us, just wants to live or to be more apt, fulfill its purpose. How unfortunate for the little bugger! Achieving what it ought to be at the expense of others.
Stop.
All sorts of crazy have been crawling out of my woodwork because what I've been attempting to write hasn't pushed through so, hello, here's a totally useless scene from a sporadic writing life.
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