Generally speaking, lungs are a good thing. They facilitate breathing and what not. Last year, I got the dreaded swine flu. It was essentially like having flu ... with knobs on. At the time, I had been working in my job for only three weeks, so I returned to work the second I was able to stand and function like a living being, instead of lying around as though I'd just been exhumed. As a result of returning to work far too soon, I caught a chest infection. This ended with me being carted away from work in an ambulance, getting rushed through A & E for a chest x-ray and various other tests and finding out that my lungs were aged twenty-one. I was twenty-four at the time. I was thrilled!
Since this time, I have imagined that my lungs are generally having a party, celebrating a perpetual twenty-first birthday. Since the dreaded swine, every time I come into contact with a cold virus or anything vaguely similar, I get a bad chest. At this time, my lungs do not function adequately. In fact, it feels rather like the person who is usually partying in my lungs has set up a fire and is punching me repeatedly from the inside. When a bug gets really bad, I start hacking and coughing like I smoke a hundred cigarettes a day. Things start to move around my chest. They are little invaders. They are green and slimy and I hate them ... a lot.
Did I mention that I hate them? Or that this is what my lungs have been doing to me all week?
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