The sounds of sickness

I've spent some time here idealizing roommates. They're instant acquaintances, if not instant friends. My Spanish would be a hell of a lot better if I lived with anyone who spoke it. Maybe my imaginary roommates would have a TV that I could watch, or cook dinner sometimes, or know where I can have passport photos taken around here. And in the inevitable case that they drove me crazy, at least I'd have some good stories.

I haven't been idealizing roommates much lately, though. One good thing about living alone is that it's okay if you need to be a little bit gross now and then. And I've actually been pretty disgusting with the coughing and hacking lately. So much so that I'm tempted to apologize to my neighbors, except that I don't really want to publicly own up to all the noise pollution I'm creating. That, and I don't know how to say cough in Spanish. Maybe it's because I smoked too much when I was younger, maybe it's genetic, I dunno, but whenever I get sick it ends up in my chest and I spend weeks coughing and hacking like an old emphysematic. So on the incredibly off chance that any of my neighbors are reading this, I'm really, really sorry. I don't like it any more than you do, and if I could cough quietly I would. And while we're being neighborly, maybe you could, um, shut your kids up now and then? Thanks.