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And you articulated something that's been bothering me for years. We are a nation of addicts--whether it's Oxycontin or orgasms--we constantly crave that next line, that next pill, that next piece of ass. There is this huge gaping deficit...of love. We're addicted to the chemicals released into our brains by new sexual experiences and mistake those for the real deal. Frankly, it's tragic. Think of the families torn apart by the wretchedness of illicit (chemical), sexually-obsessive (chemical) affairs.
I know. I've been on the receiving end of addicts' obsessions. The fault is mine, in part: I involve myself with men who can't possibly love me because they're too love-stoned to know who I am. I get it now. It took me longer than maybe it should have. What's sad is how easily I was duped into thinking THIS was love.
So to paraphrase Maya Angelou, you do the best you can do with the information you have; when you know better, you do better. Learning to love someone irrespective of the chemical cocktail they may serve is hardly glamorous. But it sure beats the alternative: endless years of stunt-cock (or substitute genital preference here).
You have only to look at the divorce rate to know this is true.
