Just like you're never an ex-alcoholic, only a reformed alcoholic who no longer drinks, it seems it's also impossible to be an ex-workaholic.

It was just a nostalgic little sip, a supposedly preventative reminder of the bitter sensation in the mouth, the thumping head and the aching bones. It was meant to dissuade rather than encourage, to prevent rather than cure. It's a fake promise, a fool's paradise, an illusory nirvana. Real life is elsewhere. But when the adrenaline is pumping to your brain, the hot, sticky blood coursing through your veins, who could resist?

As I dance with Medusa I will screw my eyes tightly shut and pray that I am not seduced by her words, distracted by her gaze and turned to stone.

Posted by Hg on Wednesday 12 June 2002 at 20:49.
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