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7:55 a.m. - 2012-07-04
No one is here.

After they left I raced to the cabinet, opened the door, and rummaged for my addiction.



Sat down on the couch.


Felt liberated, satisfied, guilty and furtive.

And weird.

It was all I had been thinking about, almost, for the past 24 hours.

Chocolate? No. Porn and sex toys? Nope, nope. Nor crack. Nor even booze.

It's this little brown book, "повести, рассказы."

Russian short stories.

I don't know anybody who really understands the depths of my compulsion.

I go into withdrawl, get uneasy and irritable and panicky. I don't enjoy what I am doing at the moment, or the people I am with.

I find myself thinking, Life is short, dammit, and I'm not studying Russian!!! GO AWAY!!

I don't know why I have this compulsion. Probably part of it is that I am avoiding people, emotionally or whatever, running from my life and hiding behind vocabulary lists and conjugations. An escape into another language is like an escape into another world, a mythical fantasy world that I have the power to make real.

Maybe it's like the soaps, or crack -- my language fetish. Maybe I could get on Intervention or My Strange Addiction. "She leaves me alone in bed at 3 a.m. to study Russian!!" Yep, she does. Sick, sick girl.



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