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Back when I had co-workers, one of them asked me how much money I made. Now that’s an inappropriate question! Being a firm believer in, and highly-regarded practitioner of, the inappropriately-spoken word, I happily answered her: $40,000 (In the interest of full disclosure, I was making $75,000 when I left the job, and now I’m making $0).
Having set us upon this quid pro quo adventure, I then was compelled to ask her how much she made. “Oh, I can’t tell you that,” she replied, rather taken aback that I would even dare to inquire.
Now let me tell you about the day I became ordinary. It came three weeks ago. That was the day I started taking Prozac. It’s the pharmacologic equivalent of throwing my hands up and saying, “This game’s just too tough for me; can I play with a handicap?” It’s a very ordinary solution for ordinary people who just don’t feel ordinary enough.
Personally, I find my depression quite humourous. For instance, after I take my morning dose of happy, I put the container back next to - and here’s the funny - my bottle of Propecia. Depressed and balding, yet mine is certainly the most alliterative medicine cabinet I know.
Not to worry, though. I won’t ask for any revelations from you. I’ve learned that lesson.
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