White guy coughing his lungs out in an alleyway in Chinatown? Eh, no. We'll leave that for the bums. But a man has to eat something. And that means a pipe afterwards. Which, when one of the symptoms one cannot seem to shake is convulsive coughing, ain't gonna work.
The last time I tried to smoke a pipe was last Wednesday. That did not go well.
I've been to C'town twice since then, to the clinic.
Prescriptions for the cough.
Everytime I've left my apartment in the last five days, I've had a pipe in my pocket. Defiantly, comfortingly. That's twice. Didn't smoke it either time. Even though I feel that is appropriate in C'town, perhaps "ironically so" near the 急症室 ('gap chan sat') of Chinese Hospital, because of my regular care physician there's lectures about the evils of smoke. Family health and health services are the same entryway and desk.
Fatty snacks and bad diet less than a block away in all directions.
Today I must make an effort to eat something.
Had nothing yesterday.
I'll have a pipe and tobacco in my coat pocket. For good luck. Touchy-feely.
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