A friend once told me that the critical mind
was like a knife in a clumsy hand, and that prozac
was like putting a condom over the knife so you can't hurt yourself with it.
It made me feel like a robot; I could function perfectly well, but I was neither happy nor sad. Nothing mattered, but this did not bother me. Prozac is the ultimate expression of the capitalist ideal.
In the laws of conservation of mood, you can't experience highs without lows.
I'd rather have a rollercoaster of a life than a train ride through the midwest.