Dogs Are Fantasies That Don't Disappoint.

Trying To Describe The Process Of Becoming An Alcoholic Is Like Trying To Describe Air. It's Too Big And Mysterious And Pervasive To Be Defined. Alcohol Is Everywhere In Your Life, Omnipresent, And You're Both Aware And Unaware Of It Almost All The Time, All You Know Is You'd Die Without It, And There Is No Simple Reason Why This Happens, No Single Moment, No Physiological Event That Pushes A Heavy Drinker Across A Concrete Line Into Alcoholism. It's A Slow, Gradual, Insidious, Elusive Becoming.

What Is This Drive To Be Thinner, Prettier, Better Dressed, Other? Who Exactly Is This Other And What Does She Look Like Beyond The Jacket She's Wearing Or The Food She's Not Eating? What Might We Be Doing, Thinking, Feeling About If We Didn't Think About Body Image, Ever?

Love—the Desire To Love And Be Loved, To Hold And Be Held, To Give Love Even If Your Experience As A Recipient Has Been Compromised Or Incomplete—is The Constant On The Continuum Of Hunger, It's What Links The Anorexic To The Garden-variety Dieter, It's The Persistent Pulse Of Need And Yearning Behind The Reach For Food, For Sex, For Something.

So It Persists, For Many Of Us, Hunger Channeled Into Some Internal Circuitry Of Longing, Routed This Way And That, Emerging In A Thousand Different Forms. The Diet Form, The Romance Form, The Addiction Form, The Overriding Hunger For This Purchase Or That Job, This Relationship Or That One. Hunger May Be Insatiable By Nature, It May Be Fathomless, But Our Will To Fill It, Our Often Blind Tenacity In The Face Of It, Can Be Extraordinary.

I've Always Been Drawn To Solitude, Felt A Kind Of Luxurious Relief In Its Self-generated Pace And Rhythms.