Spit Game

I don't know what's going on but lately, I've just been kinda phlegmy. Most every time I cough, I need to spit. And mind you, that is not ladylike, not in the least. But then again, who ever said I needed to be? So what if I cough? Don't you? And don't you also get that salty glob of goo bouncing on your tongue while you're driving? It makes me a bit nervous on the freeway because I get paranoid that once I roll my window down to eject the human slimeball, my speed combined with the wind will cause my salt goober to land against my driver side rear window, thus forth, freaking out whomever is sitting behind me looking out the window at the time. If it were me sitting back there, I'd be thankful that I left my window closed because I would be sleeping and if I left my window open, I would most likely have swallowed that potentially viral mucus because I might sleep with my mouth open.


I wonder who would feel more awful, the driver who spit, or the passenger who saw it spread across her window seat view, blurring their vision of how much of a percentage off their sale is at Ikea. What an indecent distraction from daydreaming. I'm gonna go with the passenger. I think the passenger would feel a sense of uncomfortable awkwardness, like when your underwear sticks to your crotch in public and you can't pull it out without anyone noticing so you just have to let it marinate.

This is only because 1) the driver probably doesn't know where their gift landed, and 2) the passenger might be a carpooler who doesn't even know the driver and would fail to react as a homie and say, "Oh my GOD! That's gross, man. Your spit just landed on my window." Nope. A carpooler would just ignore that it happened and once they get out of the car, they'd go to their office or pull out their cell phone, and tell everyone they know about the catastrophe that occurred this morning. It's not exactly the kind of conversation you want to be having while you're on a date.

If I were on a date at the local high-end wallet-slimming trendy hot spot, I would rather conversate about the proper way to pop a pimple than talk about swallowing someone else' liquid bacterial package. Although both conversations are quite distasteful, at least I can relate to disputing your friendly neighborhood T zone violation. If my date ever brought up spit, then I'm going to throw up shit.