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 emotional 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 encouraged 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 one more time.
Meanwhile the object of your adoration is now repulsed by you. He looks at you like someone he's never met before. And not have to, like, you know, justify it. The irony is you can hardly blame him. I mean, check yourself out. You're a mess. Unrecognizable even to your own eyes. You asked me to come here? Here l am. And it turned into something else.
That's a great response to a conversation. Goddamn it. You have now reached infatuation's final destination.
