Shoes, Ships, and Sealing Wax

Gimmie the serotonin and nobody gets hurt

I'm not joking about the light box. (Not joking about getting one, and not joking about the fact that they're more expensive than a ticket to West Palm Beach.)

My self-diagnosis of SAD didn't come from out of nowhere. I was talking to a woman at work who's been diagnosed with it, and she was the one who advanced the hypothesis (when I said "It's like I've had raging PMS for six weeks straight.")

She also pointed out that last year I worked in an office with a floor to ceiling window, and now I work in a basement. (I told Bill that if they move my desk one more time, then, then I'm, I'm quitting, I'm going to quit. And, and I told Don too, because they've moved my desk four times already this year, and I used to be over by the window, and I could see the squirrels, and they were merry, but then, they switched from the Swingline to the Boston stapler...)

So maybe I need light. That damn serotonin, it's not going to make itself under the flicker of a 15-watt fluorescent desk lamp.