The sounds of gunfire fly through the air. I know I’m in trouble when I hear the clatter of a grenade at my feet. What will I do! My life feels like it’s on the line, but I just can’t stop. I just… can’t… stop. The grenade bursts into a fiery flash at my feet and I scream out in terror and rage. I scream till my throat hurts and my lungs burn.

I see only darkness at that moment. I know that I have died and there is nothing I can do about it. I feel that my life meant nothing and that I should have trained myself so much better. A deep godly voice resounds through the air telling me those fateful words that I dread, “Instant Kill, press any key to respawn.”

I’ve been playing this game for days straight now. My gaunt figure is barely illuminated by the screen in front of me. I lost my job two days ago. That was the day I beat 1W1nUn00b in the ultimate death-match.

My girlfriend left me before that at some point. I think it was because I lost at Monopoly Online and reacted like any gamer would. She says it wasn’t because I was smashing the walls. She says it was because of the smell. What smell? Empty pop cans don’t smell because they’re empty! I haven’t moved in a week, so I couldn’t have dirtied these clothes.

My mother came by with a priest. The priest kept talking about exercise or something like that. All I know is that he was blocking my view while I was playing that neat Person simulation game. He had to go. The bodies were easy to get rid of. My mom’s body fit nicely in the freezer. Just like in that police game I once played. What a great time that was!

My landlord came up to my apartment. Told me I had an addiction to video games, and I had lost my grip on reality. I knew what he really wanted though. He was actually taken over by aliens and just wanted my brains. He would have stuck one of those brain sucker things on me in a minute! He fit nicely beside my mother in the freezer once I wiggled him in right. Was sort of like playing Tetris really.

My food stocks have run out, but I can’t miss a new event being run on my favorite MMORPG called World of Warstuff. I have to keep playing… My vision grows dim and I don’t think I’m doing very well. I fall pitifully to the floor and my keyboard is out of reach. The seizures take hold of me and I can tell I’m dying.

I stop moving and my last breath starts to fade from my lips.

My only thought is, “Where is the voice telling me to respawn?”.

Someone… anyone… push the reset button. Please.

It starts out simple enough; you bring home a few magazines that you bought from the store and settle down to read. But wait! What’s this? It’s a bunch of little subscription cards inside the magazine. Not just one either, but several, all in strategic locations of the magazine and urging you to get a subscription and telling you what to do. Some of them come falling out in your lap to attack you, while others are stapled inside refusing to move until you take the initiative to remove the paper parasites. After you rip these out, you check your other magazines and just like the first, they’re infested as well, so you rip them out too and return to reading, not realizing that a dangerous habit is forming.

The next time you’re in the book store, you go to the magazine section again just to browse now. Once again you encounter the little cards inside. Sure you’re just browsing, but these cards, they seem to mock you and you can’t let them get away with it. You decide to do it. You look around to make sure no overzealous store clerk is watching and you tear them out. You feel that euphoric rush surge within you. When you first ripped them out, you were more annoyed, but now you feel good. You enjoy it all, the tear it makes, the crumpling of it, everything. Now you don’t even care if you rip a little bit of magazine along with it, all you want is that card at any cost.

Now you’re going to the bookstore everyday, lurking around the magazine section like the pathetic junkie you are, waiting patiently for people to move away so you can do your thing. It’s too slow! You can’t wait anymore, you begin taking more risks, you start ripping the cards out around customers you think won’t care. You get some strange looks, but nobody really says anything. It’s good! You can participate in your card ripping fix without fear! And then it happens, you get careless and forget to look out for the actual store workers who are none too pleased with you vandalizing defenseless magazines. They expect you to pay for them all, but you can’t because you quit your job to hang around in the bookstore all day. They throw you out and ban you. You don’t care though; you just go to a different one and repeat the process all over again, until you’re eventually banned from every bookstore in the state. Even convenience stores have a photo of you so they can run you off when they see you approach.

You try the old substitute of tearing mattress tags, but it just isn’t the same and can’t possibly compare to the rush of tearing magazine cards. You are sickened by what you’ve become. You eventually end it all by stealing a magazine and slashing your wrists with the card inside that made you into this empty shell today.

They say that I’m not addicted. They say it’s a “physical dependence”, a simple bodily function. They say that addiction is a state of mind, needing a drug, wanting it, craving it. Loving it.

I hate it.

Rationally, I know that this is better than the alternative, better than the pain that constantly wracks my body. Without this medicine, I would have descended into the depths of insanity ages ago. The medicine dulls my pain, keeps me from screaming in agony.

I hate it.

As it dulls the pain, it dulls my mind. Memories that were once clear are now hazy, out of focus. When I picture images from the past, it’s like I’m looking through a camera with a shattered lens. I flip through family albums, struggling to remember the good times, the vacations, my life before the pain. I see the smiling faces of my family. I see my smiling face. We all look so happy. Why can’t I remember? Even worse – how could I forget? They say it's the medicine, they say it's a minor side effect.

I hate it.

Every month, I faithfully go to my doctor for that little piece of paper that allows me to get more medicine. My wife has to take me, since I’m not allowed to drive anymore. Just another little inconvenience, they say. So what if I’ve lost my independence? Look at the great quality of life that I get in exchange. They can’t heal me, so they cover their helplessness with drugs.

I hate it.

The dreams are the worst. I dread the coming night, knowing what awaits me. I am a soldier in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by landmines, watching helplessly as the men in my command are blown up, one by one. I wait in my room, watching the doorknob slowly turn, knowing I am the killer’s next victim. I run through the dense forest, chased by monsters and demons. The branches hit my face and tear my skin, yet I run on. I run until my wife hears my cries and wakes me. I lie in bed as the adrenaline fades and sleep beckons. I close my eyes and the cycle begins again.

I hate it.

Yet people take this drug for pleasure. They say they like the “feeling” the narcotic gives them. They think it’s fun. They think it’s cool. They can quit at any time, but they don’t. Why? It robs you of your mind, your freedom. It kills your soul. But maybe that’s what they’re looking for.

Every day I pray for a miracle. I pray that some researcher, somewhere, finds a cure for my disease. I pray that day comes soon, because can’t I live with it any longer.

But I can’t live without it.

You never know what you're addicted to until it's taken away, such as when weekend adventures are crowded out by two months of 126-hour-weeks. I told my boss, "I'm taking my kayak down a river. I'll come in when I'm done. If that's not good enough you can fire me later because I'm too busy right now."

Heavy overnight rain flooded the river to ten times it's normal flow but I needed this run. Besides, it was win-win. I would either make it as a hero or fail as an idiot but at least I wouldn't have to go back to work.

I've met many better kayakers but none so reckless and so this was to be a solo run. I sealed myself into the kayak, timed a gap in the debris and plunged into the turbulent waters.

This was a whole new river. Familiar rapids were all washed away by hydraulics on steroids. Former boulders became black holes orbited by entire trees and I flew over wave after six foot wave at barely controllable speeds. As long as I remained upright I felt truly alive but there were no second chances.

Memory dissolves into a series of snapshots. Timing a lunge through a wave while it built to six feet and streaking past before it crashed down like a ravenous maw. Bouncing through a stretch of pure chaos as waves formed and disappeared leaving the kayak in the air before crashing down and being thrown around like a pinball. Cresting a wave and lunging to one side to escape a towering, foaming meat-grinder twirling an uprooted tree. Branches. Roots. Branches. Gap!

This run normally takes 45 minutes but that day I did it in twenty. I skidded into the take-out eddy, which now extended half way across the car park, to find a couple of para-medics waiting. Someone along the river had assumed my quest for an adrenaline fix had led to a fatal overdose! We chatted about the river conditions for a while and then they left just as the cops arrived.

The two disgruntled cops seemed desperate to charge me with something. No, I was never in trouble on the river. Of course I knew it was flooding, that was why I was there. Dodging the trees was just like merging into traffic. I didn't call them so how can I be wasting their time? Yes, I was seeing a psychiatrist but they excommunicated me (I had had enough by this point).

I made it back to work just as the adrenaline wore off. I scooped the clutter on my desk into a box and lay down with instructions not to be woken unless my code was wrong or it was time to leave. As I drifted to sleep I heard someone from the doorway ask "Is he on something?". "No, that's just Mike." replied a colleague. "He does more in a weekend than most people do in a lifetime".

It’s been a year, but the pain is still fresh, raw. Time has passed, but to him, it still seems as if he’ll wake up and it will have all been a dream. A horrible nightmare, that will slowly fade in the fierce glare of the early morning sun.

Every morning as the sun pierces his curtains, and the dust motes dance to their early morning song, he rises slowly. He doesn’t open his eyes, no, not yet, he waits. He listens to the dawn arrive, he can hear the sun rise. (He told a few people of his thoughts long ago, but not in awhile, their odd looks telling him they think he’s losing his mind or that grief still has him in its icy grip. And then the dates start, they fix him up with every girl within a hundred miles. He can’t go through that again. He isn’t ready, and he knows he never will be. They don’t understand, and he doesn’t think they ever will.) The dawn does speak to him, he can feel its arrival, taste its coming glory. The slight breeze that stirs his curtains, and brings with it the smell of a new day.

He can feel the rising heat of the land as the sun kisses the horizon and rises to the challenge of a new day, a new beginning. He prays for an old beginning, he hopes for the day when he can feel the presence of another. When on rising, he can feel the weight of her body next to his on their mattress. When he can smell the scent of her shampoo wafting to him on the morning breeze.

He lingers there each morning, half awake and takes a deep breath. His lungs expanding with the effort, his nostrils flaring in their desire to register a half forgotten scent. His shoulders slump in defeat each morning, his heart thudding to a stop, as dread of a new day to conquer registers in his mind. Another day to get through, another day that never ends.

He opens his eyes, blinking from the sudden brightness, and reflexively stretches his long limbs. He rises and slowly shuffles his way to the bathroom that they shared. He glances in the mirror as he passes it, his eyes sunken, his skin pale.

He finishes and straightens himself, he pushes the handle and watches the water swirl away. He wishes he could swirl away, that he could pull the handle of life and let his life forces spiral down a cosmic drain. He begs for an end, he can’t do this again, not another day to get through.

He moves to the sink and opens the mirrored cabinet, he removes one of the many bottles and uncaps it. He tilts it and watches as two pills slip into his palm. He flips his hand up and pops them into his mouth while reading her name on the label. One day soon baby, one day soon.

I know you want me. You can’t hide your desire. I see it in your dark brown eyes.

Most are unaware of their allure, or at least they won’t admit to it. Those of us with my depth of appeal don’t feel the need to mislead with false humility. What’s that song? “Lord it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way …” That was written for me.

You can’t hide from the truth for long. Many have tried. But the simple fact of the matter is that I am wonderful. (Yes, I said wonderful.) I’m so magnificent, that even vanity doesn’t ruin my flawlessness. Conceit? Arrogance? Sure, you can use those distasteful words if you feel the need. Even they cannot detract from my breathtakingly sweet beauty.

Tell me. When have you ever seen a richer, more exquisitely tanned body? When have you seen a silky umber so deep that it reflects such a diverse myriad of colors in the heat of the sun? When, indeed, have you ever felt softer, more luscious flesh in that same warmth?

Admit it. You haven’t. And you won’t.

Not ever.

I am the ultimate indulgence. My scent alone can drive you to the heights of pleasure, or the depths of despair. So take me. Rip off my garments and take pleasure in all that I am. I will do anything you ask of me – be anything you want me to be – and I’ll never tell a soul our secrets. Let me melt into your mouth. I will pretend to be your slave.

But you must never forget that I am in fact your master. Never forget that life without me would not be worth living. And never forget that whenever you consume my milky goodness, you take my flesh upon yours forevermore.

I will never leave you.

I know you want me. Give into your desires and we will be one, forever.

Irresistibly Yours,
Ghirardelli

I woke up in a cold sweat this morning and sat up in bed to hold myself in an embrace that brought me little comfort. Shivering and shaking; I sat there with blank eyes, staring at nothing at all and longing for my one vice, my one desire, my one love. It had been only days since I'd last submerged myself into the unending bliss I derive from the passionate affair I share with the object of my affection. It seemed like years.

After rubbing away the tear that threatened to spill from my eye I dropped my feet to the hard wood floor and stood on shaky legs. Oh the agony of going through another day with the knowledge that I may not obtain what I so desperately desire. With much apprehension, I reached the doorway from my room and entered the hall, hoping and praying with every step for even a glimpse of the precious substance.

Descending the stairs on weak limbs, I found my hunger to be increasingly unbearable. At the bottom of the stair I leaned against the wall and dry heaved. If only I could obtain the cure for my disease, the antidote to my addiction. But alas, there has been nothing for some time.

Having recovered from my nauseous state I entered the kitchen and made my way to the cupboards. I knew full well that the object of my desires would not be present, but checked the contents of the shelving unit despite this. I can’t say that I was surprised to find the cupboard empty, but the pain of my discovery was intense just the same.

My tears were on the verge of flooding from their ducts again when I spun around in pure anguish, cursing whatever gods would allow such a burden to plague one such as myself. To my utter astonishment and absolute relief, I found that which I had longed for so utterly sitting upon my kitchen table.

“I bought you more Fruity Pebbles cereal, hon.” My mom said as she walked into the kitchen.

“Thanks, mom.” I said humbly, shuffling my feet a bit.

Fruity Pebbles. I had found a reason to live again.

It was my junior year in college at the University of Arizona, and I was busy with the whole college repertoire… drinking, partying, and pulling stupid stunts. Needless to say, I wasn’t doing too well in my classes.

I was taking in German 101 (for the third time), but I was keener on checking out the girls than I was on finally passing the class. I had my eye on one stunner, sitting a few seats up and a row over. Long, flowing blonde hair, short skirt, tight t-shirt, and very well endowed. I could go on and on, but it suffices to say that no one could take their eyes off of her.

It was about that time that someone came in and sat next to me. I looked over to see whom, and was taken aback. It was a little, old woman, easily old enough to be the grandmother of anyone in the room, including the professor.

“Good morning,” she said, in a shy, wizened old voice, “I’m Claire Reid. Nice to meet you.”

I was busy trying to come up with a reason why she would be there, but nothing was coming to mind. “Hi, I’m David Zidlisky,” I said back. “If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here?”

She laughed lightly. “To learn, silly.”

The professor picked that time to start talking, so my conversation with Claire was cut short, but I was intrigued; I made it my goal to find out more about Claire.

After class, I caught up to her in the halls. “Hi again, Claire, it’s me, David.”

“Oh, hello,” she replied.

“Sorry, but I’m having a bit of trouble understanding this… aren’t you a little old to be going to college? I mean, I know that I’ll be here for longer than four years, but…”

She laughed again, “Don’t worry son, I get that all the time. I always figure that you’re never too old to learn. It’s what I’ve been doing for my entire life.”

She explained to me, while eating lunch, that she absolutely loved to learn. She had been a straight A student all her life, despite having to work her way through the first three years of college. As a freshman, she met her husband to be, then a senior. He proposed after her junior year, and soon after, he hit it rich with oil stocks. Claire no longer needed a job, but she loved learning so much, that she kept going to school. After she had finished her four-year term, she went on to obtain her masters, then doctorate in English. But her love for learning was not yet sated, so she went back to the beginning to start another degree. Throughout her many years, she had obtained doctorates in English, History, French, and Political Science. She explained that now she was going for a degree in German.

“Well it’s been nice talking to you,” she said, slowly easing out of her seat. “Goodbye.” She threw away her trash, and ambled away, dragging her pack of books in a rolling bag.

Bob sat in the uncomfortable chair, his hands gripping the arms, his right foot tapping. The desk he is sitting across from has various degrees of piles on it.

There is currently no one sitting behind the desk, but that didn't stop Bob from coming right in. The boss said two o'clock, and that's what time he came in.

The office door opens and in walks a man in the standard business suit and tie. Not expensive, yet not cheap either. Bob turns his head toward the boss, who looks at Bob, a little perplexed.

"Bob?" You could have waited outside," the boss says, slightly creeped out at the smile that has snaked its way across Bob's face.

"I know, but I figured it would speed things up if I waited in here. The faster to get back to work and all."

The boss walks around the desk, being careful to avoid any more eye contact until he has to. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," the boss says, pulling his executive leather chair from his desk and sitting in it, only now making eye contact. "You've been working here for a couple of days now. When I hired you, you seemed like the perfect candidate to fill the position."

"Thank you," Bob says seemingly not understanding that it wasn't a compliment.

"Well, since then, there have been problems. Your reports are formatted wrong. You have terrible customer relations, and the coffee incident still has employees calling in sick, some even considering workman's comp."

"What are you trying to say?" Bob asks, the smile disappearing from his face, his body tensing up. His knuckles are white from gripping the chair.

"I'm saying I don't think this is going to work out. I think it'd be best to clear out your desk by the end of the day."

Bob blinks several times. His throat is dry, but he forces himself to swallow, finally able to give voice to his thoughts. "If...if you think that's best?"

"I do," the boss says, very resolute in his tone.

It only took Bob ten minutes to clear out his desk. In fact, everything he had fit into the plastic Wal-Mart bag he found in the trashcan. He doesn't bother saying goodbye. He simply leaves.

When he walks through the double exit doors, he moves to the wall and leans against it, dropping his bag to the ground. He lets out a loud sigh, and his earlier smile returns to his face. The buzz coursed through his body.

He looks at his watch. Almost three o'clock. He had a couple of hours left before he had to go to his night job. He wondered if tonight would be the night they fired him. God he hoped so.

He picks up his bag and begins to whistle as he walks down the sidewalk. He stops, noticing the Help Wanted sign in the Starbuck's window.

He looks at his watch. Yeah, he had time.

The body is starting to shake now, fighting me. A strange, almost inhuman noise emanates from my throat, which I barely recognize as originating from me. Each second that passes is more torturous than the last, as I battle to break its unquenchable desire. Cyanosis begins to creep into the extremities, starting in the little fingers, and expanding into my hands, and for the first time, I have a faint hope that this time, I just might break through, and finally end this insatiable addiction.

It was way back, in Grade 5 that I first became aware that I even had a problem. It was one of those annual swimming carnivals that the school system seems to take great pleasure in inflicting on the young. A few of the boys, myself included, had become increasingly bored with the endless laps, and meaningless events, and had headed over to one of the smaller pools to muck around, doing bombs, flip dives, and underwater breath-hold competitions.

On the bus back to school, the events of the afternoon kept ticking over in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more it dawned on me that everyone was addicted. Looking around the bus, everyone was doing it, without a thought, or care, and I began to feel trapped. Sitting on the slowly warming, but damp vinyl seat on that bus, I made my first furtive attempts to break the habit. They failed, but even at such a young age, I knew that I would fight, even until the day that I died, to finally free myself of this dependency. The following day, in science, I got some reassurance that perhaps I was right, because I found out that my addiction was toxic- we always seem to be attracted to that which is not good for us.

Bright sparks suddenly thrust themselves into my vision, dragging my mind out of the past, and back to the current situation. Damn. That visit to the past was the shortest yet. I had developed this habit of drifting back and thinking of the past as a kind of self-hypnosis. If I was going to break through, I needed to not only fight the body’s craving, but also my mental dependency, and dealing with both simultaneously had been my downfall in prior attempts. Over the years, I have done extensive studies to find out why it was proving so hard. For each physiological factor, I had come up with strategies to eliminate them from the equation. I knew the acidity levels in my blood was a major factor, and I had tried numerous diets to see if that would make the attempts any easier.

Today’s attempt I have vowed, will be the last. I have systematically exhausted every other possible method over the years. I decided long ago, that it was not acceptable to live in a place where the my nemesis was not available. This would not convince me that I had broken through the compulsion, so I had to achieve a break in the desire even when there was a plentiful supply. I had to overcome this on my own, without help, without cheating.

It’s getting harder now, I’m not sure if I will survive, but I will honor my pledge that I made to myself on that bus, so many years before, to fight this accursed addiction until the day I died. As I draw one ragged breath, followed by another, it slowly dawns on me that I have failed, once again.