I have bronchitis. It makes me mad because not only do I not like being sick, but I have a hard time not disliking others who are always sick. It makes me very anxious. Like having to hang out with people of weak character: something bad is going to happen to us.
The bottom line is this: tobacco is the work of the Devil. Now, with the exception of a socially-puffed cigarette on Mardi Gras evening, I haven't smoked since mid-January. That's two months free of the addiction. In fact, if it weren't for my contemptuous lapse into that fucking habit back in November, I'd be working on something like a nine or ten-month span of freedom.
And I really do feel like I am free now. I don't know why I should ever light up a cigarette again.
My usual doctor ---a very pretty lady of South Asian extraction--- was not in yesterday, so an elderly gentleman doctor saw to me. I proudly claimed my cold turkey to him and he very dryly remarked that, although he was glad to know that I have given up smoking, it does not protect me against everything. Which is a wise way of telling me that I'll get no credit for that if I do not otherwise work for my own health.