Mine is food.
I’ve been successful at losing weight when I put my mind to it.
But when ‘they’ try to help you they always say: ‘well where do you rate your addiction against other pleasures of life, like your family, your job, religion, interests…’.
But they are missing the point. You can only compare your addiction, as one of your favorite things, qu’en compared to voluntary, enjoyable activities. Like watching TV, sleeping excessively, drinking, hobbies…. fun stuff — not obligations or fixed parts of your life.
Oh well, I’ll just go to church more or I’ll spend more quality time with my kid instead of eating!
Sorry apples and oranges.
Your effort at helping is inane, shitty, condescending psycho-babble.
Fun can only be substituted with fun.
No, your addiction must be compared to other fun or leisure activities, not some esoteric boilerplate of everyday life.
So I’ll keep you posted on how it goes.
I was getting ready to run at the snowy, remote trail-head.
I thought I was alone as I started my dictation into my unnamed hand-held recording device. I heard a voice behind me.
‘Oh how deliciously profound you are with your sexy big words.’
I turned around. I t was Ramon. He was still endlessly posing as if in some imaginary bodybuilding contest.
‘I was listening to every word you said. You know I have an addiction.’
‘Big Muscle. I am addicted to Big Muscle. I hope we don’t see any bears out here, they may try to mate with you. But I digress, Señor. I am passionately, madly, in love with you. You are the epitome of masculine beauty: hulking, smelly, sweaty, frighteningly vulgar, hideous, Frankenstein-like, hairy, uncouth, drooling, rotting, savage, freakish, Bigfoot…’
‘Enough! Stop the compliments already! Don’t you have somewhere to be?’
‘Oh yes, put me back in my place Botendaddy, Sir, punish me, abuse me! Love me!’
‘Ramon, please let go you’re creating a scene.’
‘But we are on a forest trail, miles from civilization, with only this shitty, ethereal, ancient Greshian urn to keep us company. I wonder if it wasn’t once perched at the gate of some great 19th Century Victorian estate. Ah, time…’ He said wistfully, contemplating the hoary vessel.
‘Let us run, Ramon, let us run.’
‘Very well Sir… you are the master! I will be the Sancho to your shitty, aged, decrepit, muscular Don Quixote.’
Peace be the Botendaddy