I quickly closed the book and put it on the shelf. As I maneuvered to the computer on the other side of the room I marveled at the fact that my best ideas seem to come just after I've read a chapter of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

When I sat down at the computer, I knew exactly what I was going to write. I clicked on the little Dreamweaver button, and waited as the damned thing began its slow (but much faster than on the stupid laptop I use for work) loading process. But this time it went really fast, in fact, it made a "DING!" and showed me a nice little error message that went something like this, "Dreamweaver has encountered a fatal error and will terminate."

I tried again. DING.

I tried again, despite the seeming futility of the act, and as the DING! sounded one more time I began to realize that if I were smart I would open something else and write what I was thinking there instead. But I wasn't smart, so I opened the task manager and began looking for processes that looked like they belonged to Dreamweaver. My theory was that some part of Dreamweaver didn't shut down the first time I had it open, so I would have to force it to shut down in order to open it up again.

After forcing several processes to terminate, and closing all the applications I had open, and attempting to shutdown any process that I didn't recognize at all, and repeatedly trying to open Dreamweaver to the sound of a DING! again and again, I gave up, and realized that I was absolutely retarded, and was about to restart my computer just so that I could use Dreamweaver to write something down, just because I always used Dreamweaver to write down anything of any importance, which was because usually I would publish anything of any importance to my website.

By the time the computer was restarted, I had forgotten the finer details of my point. In fact, as the computer had shut itself down and gradually restarted, I had argued most of my original thoughts into obsolescence. I wondered, as the deprecated thoughts began to wisp away out of sheer insignificance, whether I had successfully rebutted my theories because they were wrong, or because I was just an idiot. Or worse, had I gotten rid of them just because they were right?

I decided to begin the painful process of retrieving my thoughts and giving them a once over.

I idly plumaged the various lobes of my brain, like a mechanic feeling around in a tool box, except that it didn't make that rustling tools sound, which would have made it cooler. I rewound my brain to the point where I was throwing the book on the shelf and remembered, vaguely, part of my revelation. It involved work. It involved my mental illness, and Zoloft. I had come to the startling and irresistible conclusion that I did not have a depression problem or a bipolar problem, or any well known named physiologically identifiable imbalance. I had decided that my problem was, in the most technical sense of the word, "psychological". Or perhaps you might say, "learned".

In fact, I had decided that - BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ.

My phone was ringing. I answered it. It was time to get Miriam.

Five minutes after I received my alert to pick up Miriam, I realized that I was pushing my luck and had to get up from the computer. I was now in a race. I had to race traffic, I had to race time, and most of all, I had to race the ice that was forming on the road. Racing ice can be a tricky business, for obvious reasons.