It begins when the object of your affection bestows upon you a heady hallucinogenic dose of something you’ve never even dared to admit you wanted, an emoitional speedball of thunderous love and excitement. Soon you start craving that attention with the hungry obsession of any junkie. When it’s withheld, you turn sick, crazy, not to mention resentful of the dealer who ecouraged this addiction in the first place but now refuses to pony up the good stuff. Goddamn him, and he used to give it to you for free. Next stage finds you skinny, shaking in a corner certain only that you’d sell your soul just to have that one thing more time. The irony is you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You’re a mess. Unrecognizable even to your own eyes. You have now reached infatuation’s final destination. The complete and merciless devaluation of self.