I told my lady psychiatrist that having to cut antidepressants in half was making me more depressed than I normally am, because when not shattering on impact, the pills sail across the kitchen and land somewhere on the floor that I have become acutely aware of the disgustingness of during the half an hour or so each afternoon I spend crawling around on it in a (depressive) rage. She does not give a hearty laugh and tell me I am cute and endearing like my last dude psychiatrist did, but rather suggests with a straight face that I invest in a pill cutter. I guess that's sound life advice.
Maybe these floor pills are starting to kick in, because I'm having a rather epic week for me. Job interview today, date with a dude on Friday, and a friend's birthday dinner on Saturday. I plan to take the dude along to the birthday dinner Saturday if all goes well on Friday. This will very much impress my friends who decided long ago that I was a lesbian cat hamster lady.
Will update provided I don't overdose on crushed antidepressants I've no other way of ingesting but through snorting.