Sunday morning and I feel like a junkie. I’m holding a yellow-brown piece of cheesecake on a plate in my left hand while writing with the right. Every now and then I stop writing to take a bite or I sip from the soja latte that is part of the whole entourage. I just drove out all the way into the city, unwashed and with my dog Eddie in the back of the car just to get this cheesecake. One piece, not even two for my sweetheart or some other noble purpose. I did it just because I wanted it. Which, I guess in some therapeutic circumstances would be a good thing (“Good for you! Do something only for yourself for once. Indulge!”). But in my case I’m not sure. How do you know if something is an expression of self love or just plain selfishness?