"think of your head as an unsafe neighborhood- don't go there alone"

i have cried whilst reading a book exactly twice. the first one was fairly recently but i cannot recall the situation; the second was 'dry', tonight, in a freezing corner of the university bookstore. i am certain it is psychologically detrimental to read books in one (or in this case, two) sittings, especially ones loaded with depressing crap that hits way too close to home; i left the bookstore feeling drugged and scarily fucking alone.
alone, in the cold wet night, with my goddamn mind. pissed off that i cannot drink like a 'normal' person, guilty because i have never been as wholeheartedly self-destructive as a 'real, true' alcoholic, disgusted that i cannot meet anyone here without some sort of substance being involved, especially disgusted that it is usually me that suggests it because i am too much of a chickenshit to think other people would consider me fun whilst sober. the book is amazing. but throughout it i couldn't help but think hideous, vile thoughts: 'oh sure, he's got all these friends around to talk to.' and i fucking hate myself for that.
transferring of addiction is mentioned often in AA. i believe my new addiction is isolation. self-imposed, pathetic isolation. it is safe. i went on another all-too-frequent plant-buying binge yesterday. my lair is now even more cool as shit. i look around my surroundings objectively and think "a person i would love to know lives here." it didn't occur to me until some hours later that i never considered somebody other than me ever being there. it is almost as if i am caught in an all-consuming, possessive affair with myself. this is fucking weird and crazy and jaw-droppingly narcissistic when i think about it in such terms.
there is always that feeling of hyperactive blankness that precedes self-destruction. i am not quite there yet. but i could be oblivious because i am consciously choosing to not have anyone around to riccochet my impulses off of.
by myself i am always competent, hilarious, and sensical. there is a seduction about that. but the world is flat and colorless without someone else to share it with: be it a clerk at the grocery store, or a warm hand on my leg, or the ability to relate a story we both experienced. without that the days drool together in fucking ennui and trees fall soundlessly in forests and all that shit.
i want my world shaken up in a frantic way. doesn't everyone?
such a paradox, wishing such things whilst sitting on my ass WRITING about them.