This Space for Rent

Okay, so this might not be a particularly good medical recommendation

To knock out the winter flu from hell™, my doctor has been suggesting some fairly esoteric remedies. This week, he suggested, of all things, prozac (presumably to chemically put me into dontworrybehappy! mode and thus fool my immune system into driving the viral menace out of my system.)

Okay, sure, I might as well try it; there's nothing more depressing than being perpetually sick and unable to work, right?

Um, er, wrong.

I'm trying to write a products requirement document for a new feature at work, and it's been through a couple of rounds of review. Today I found myself looking at my review notes and plunging into a black depression of "oh, look, words. And they're put together trying to tell me something. And I can't read them. I should quit my job. And, g-d, my house is a cesspool. We should sell it and move."

And I like my job, and my normal behavior here, even when I'm rammed up againsts the rocks of nonproductivity and am spinning my wheels frantically and going nowhere, is not I should quit, but I should work on something else until I unjam. The I should quit thing, which leapt enthusiastically into my brain and which just isn't going away, has that nasty chemical assist feeling that I've not had since I was in college learning that I really didn't like smoking dope and having my brain turn into a large potted plant with a small inner core shrieking in terror about not being in control anymore.

Sigh. I wonder how long it will take to flush this crap out of my system?