So they switched the generic pill that I’ve been on, lo these many years, and I don’t think this one’s quite identical. (The pharmacy switched it, because that’s what the company or insurance or whatever is sending them now.)
For one thing, I don’t usually spend the day sobbing hysterically. I mean, sure, I’m under stress, aren’t we all, but generally I have coping mechanisms and all. It’s not quite like bad PMS, where I’m crying because the sky is blue and hydrogen is the most common element in the universe and other such unbearable woes, but my reactions, however legitimate the reasons, are significantly out of character for me. (I am, valiantly as I try to squelch it, basically a cheerful person who believes that almost everything can be fixed, coped with, or endured. I’m not above a good cry on occasion, but not like this.)
I went and got a froofy coffee. It has whipped cream, as life without whipped cream was almost as unendurable as the existence of so much hydrogen, carelessly gallivanting about the cosmos, flaunting its single electron, in defiance of all around it. Cursed element. What does it know of life?
I suspect I’m stuck with this one for a month. If it doesn’t settle down by the end, I’ll go lay out for the name brand–this is major suckitude and not to be borne unnecessarily.
In the mean time, I will be trying to split atoms, not because of a desire for a home nuclear program, but because somebody’s gotta teach those bastards a lesson.