"So, I've always been an avid reader. And at one point in my early sobriety I became a little obsessed with death, so I was poking around all the used bookstores in my neighborhood for books that were a little... well, macabre, I guess. Anyway, I found this one book that was all about the Eskimos and surviving -- or not surviving, maybe -- winter in the extreme North.
I don't remember much about it except this one thing: In the worst part of the winter, when hunting was at its hardest and everyone and everything was pretty much starving to death, the wolf packs would start to track the Eskimos as they followed their own game to hunt. And what the Eskimos would do is they would take a knife, and sharpen it and sharpen it and sharpen it until it was to the finest edge they could make it. Then they would cut one of the dogs and get the dog blood all over the knife blade. Then they'd stick the knife, hilt down, blade up, in the snow. The wolves driven by starvation would be in a frenzy when they smelled the dog blood on the blade of the knife, and before they could stop themselves, would lick the blade, cutting themselves until they bled to death. Every sense they had told them to lick the knife, and every lick of the knife moved them closer to bleeding out.
And I thought, "Man, that is a perfect metaphor for my sexaholism. When I'm in a frenzy, my every sense tells me to "drink", tells me that THAT'S what I need. And every time I drink I move closer to kind of... spiritually bleeding out. And that can absolutely lead me to death as certainly as those poor wolves freezing in the snow."