"Addiction is the hallmark of every infatuation-based love story. It all begins when the object of your adoration bestows upon you a headly, hallucinogenic dose of something you never even dared to admit that you wanted--an emotional speedball, perhaps, of thunderous love and roiling excitement. Soon you start craving that intense attention, with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When the drug is withheld, you promptly turn sick, crazy, and depleted (not to mention resentful of the dealer who encouraged this addiction in the first place but who now refuses to pony up the good stuff anymore--despite the fact that you know he has it hidden some where, goddamn it, because he used to give it to you for free). Next stage finds you skinny and shaking in a corner, certain only that you would sell your soul or rob your neighbors just to have that thing even one more time. Meanwhile, the object of your adoration has become repulsed by you. He looks at you like you're someone he's never met before, much less someone he once loved with high passion. The irony is, you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a pathetic mess, unrecognizable even to your own eyes. So that's it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination--the complete and merciless devaluation of self."
I wish what I had is as simple as any kind of junkie, because you can always buy it from someone else. Well, perhaps I can. It just takes time to find another dealer.
