I have addiction problems.

It took me some time to come to terms with it. It was not willingly, nor do I intend to do anything drastic to remedy it. But I feel a need to vent, because it is so embarrassing that I trust posting it on the Internet would be a better option than, say, screaming it to every blonde person I walk into at the local friendly grocer.

From the day I was conceived the notion that the Internet is the number choice for confessing shameful, sordid secrets, from chewing used gum or unrolling 2-ply toilet paper, separating the layers and re-rolling it to make two rolls to having disturbing dreams about Lysol or crying to outdated Martin Luther King footage. Who could possibly find the motive and the means to ridicule it? As you're all aware of, the World Wide Web is full of charming, sensible, articulate and courteous people who respect each others' opinions, and any person who is rude or outrageously insensitive would be arrested and chucked into an internet prison filled with text-only documentations on how to make 60 prawn souffles in 50 minutes or how to dress like Liam Neeson or some or other horrendous crap like that.

But I digress. I guess I'm too shit scared to type this out aloud for fear of your collective actions (even if you are all charming, sensible, articulate and courteous), so I'm unconsciously trying to delay the process. But the time has come.

...I'm addicted to Solitaire.

Now, this is no 'Every day I think about Solitaire and have an unexplained desire to play it when I am exposed to certain foods'. We're talking HARD CORE SOLITAIRE INFATUATION. We're talking 'Every minute of my existence feels empty if I do not have the means to stack red and black cards on top of each other to create an even bigger pile of cards that, depending on the position of Sagittarius tonight, may or may not vomit bouncing simulated monstrosities when I finally win'.

I admit - I love Solitaire. It has seen me through the dullest of days; in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in trouble and out.

In fact, I once had a dream that I was in the act of moving the red Queen Of Diamonds onto the black King of Spades, and the Queen spoke to me and told me she did not want to be moved because she was racist. Also that she didn't want to sit next to him on the taxi home.

Then there was that other time in which I had to choose between living, dying, and being printed into a card with that awesome old-school rose pattern at the back. Natually I chose living, but it was a close call. Dying sounded much too exciting for me to contemplate not choosing.

Then again, if my sole purpose in life was to drag cards in an endless nightmarish train of red and black, I'd be contemplating suicide too.

...wait, what?