I smell like your car's air freshener

Tree with moss

I have smeared myself with a balm to keep me from coughing during the night. I smell like a pine tree, or one of the martinis Nathan always seemed to expect me to start to like when we lived in Kelowna and would go to Sgt. O's for cheap drinks. I would complain that the drinks tasted like a pine tree, and he would shake his head as if to suggest that I was not a real man until I enjoyed the flavour of gin.

I still don't enjoy the taste of gin, even though I smell as if I've been marinated in the stuff. This cough stopping isn't working, and I've taken every pill in my cupboards from Halls to night time Buckley's which should be knocking me out cold soon. Lydia has somehow managed to sleep through my torrent of coughing, which I suppose means that should I ever get eaten by a werewolf at night she will awaken refreshed the next day slightly surprised to find that I'm not next to her in bed. My coughing is less a machine gun than a booming canon, the city's nine o'clock gun fired again and again as if Stanley Park's time keeper is following the time on his VHS player that's blinking on and off 21:00.

Fire the canon.

Fire the canon.

Fire the canon.

Fire the canon.

Only sitting up seems to work, but it's hard to sleep like this. Yet sleep I must, I can not afford to miss more work. I could not have afforded to miss the last week that sickness took from me, and so I will be selling my smaller organs in a back alley surgeon's office later this week. I've had some very good offers on my liver.