Coffin' jag.

Nothing in PROMISELAND lines up.  I thought what I was doing was one thing, now it's another.  All my research contradicts what I've written.  Which is fine.  What I'm doing is fiction.  It can all be readjusted.

None of the lines I made during the second inking session yesterday satisfies me.  Which is fine.  Nothing irreparable was drawn, nothing that can't be fixed.  It can all be readjusted.

The headcold / allergies I had last week descended into my chest and have turned into one long coffin' jag.  I've been hacking for a week now, off & on & off & on, and today I coughed up stuff that had red flecks.

Which prob'ly only means the cough has taken a toll.  Because you're not supposed to hack this much.  It's like puking: it's a emergency reflex the body truly does not enjoy having to repeat.  But christ.

I remember "asthma" from childhood that kept me in bed upwards of a week w/ my lungs full of phlegm.  It was an ancient house, the gas heating drove all the moisture out of the air, and my parents were growing goddamned 'shrooms in tubs of dung in the attic over my bedroom... this is NOT a joke, and I wasn't aware of it until we moved out, years later, when they found the tubs & went "Oh, we forgot about those"  --and then there was the whole, y'know, child abuse thing.  So I don't know if was asthma.  Nobody even knew what asthma was, where I was growing up.  It was either hereditary or environmental or... any other number of factors, because medical science in Dogwater, Alabama, was tantamount to snake handling.  I mean, these hippy dolts took me to a chiropractor to have my neck wrenched, regularly.  A chiropractor named, shit you not, Dr. Alan Strange.

Laugh.  I did.

Point being, all anybody knows is at the age of seven going on eight I would cough until it felt like I'd been punched in the ribs, and I didn't dream so much as sprawl with my spine at an obtuse angle on a stack of pillows feeling as though I were falling upward through the ceiling into the blank abyss of space.  I couldn't sleep flat because I would drown in my own snot, ergo I couldn't properly sleep.  So I would just lay there, hallucinating, wracked with muscle pain.

This ain't that.  But I'm pretty weary of coughing fits and spitting up gray-green wads which I know to be the result of altogether too many years smokin' ditchweed, and tonight I'm trying to not be alarmed at red specks.  Which I am not telling my life partner & true love about.  Because, christ.

Anyway.  I'll try to ink again tomorrow.  When I don't have this shit going on.