There’s no feeling in the world like Lust.  It’s like being hit by lightning, blended into a milkshake, and fired from a cannon.  It makes me feel alive by making me feel like it’s killing me.  It resembles bungee jumping, roller coasters, shooting guns, the hottest buffalo wings on the menu: it’s an extreme sport.

Locking eyes with Her, I’m skinned like a fish and sizzled on a griddle, and I like it.  She’s playing my heart strings like a heavy metal guitarist.  It’s out of control and feels like ultimate control.

In every relationship I’ve pursued for the excitement, though, the girl has a countdown clock on her forehead.  The minute we start talking, I keep trying to ignore this clock on her head that’s ticking down.  The countdown clock tracks my waning interest.  After a few weeks, she no longer overwhelms me.  The clock hits zero, the spell is broken.

Lust has a shelf life.  I have canned vegetables in my cabinet that have lasted longer than all my relationships put together.  I need to form a relationship that lives past the expiration date of a can of corn… one who's expiration date is the date of my own expiration.  The SA sobriety definition supports this dream.