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.
God damn 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. The irony is you can hardly blame him. You're a mess, unrecognizable even in your eyes.
You have now reached infatuation's final destination. The complete and merciless devaluation of self.
Isn't that the whole page of every classic love story, including how it begin and how it end?
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