We were all warned about human tendencies towards addiction. Health class programs taught us to stay away from drugs, your mama warned you not to smoke those cigarettes and Kurt Cobain was a great example of the dangers of heroin. But what about the lesser-known evils? What about the everyday obsessions we eagerly feed the fire of without even realizing we're on a one-way course to addiction? What about the denial, the withdrawal, the alienation of our friends? What was Jane's addiction, anyway? It all has to do with human nature. When you really, really like something, you want it all the time. Often, you eventually get sick of it and move on to the next craze. Take food, for example. I became heavily intoxicated by the smell of boiling Ramen noodles and craved them for my entire first year. Unfortunately, I grew bored of the variety of fine oriental flavors and dove head first into a debilitating addiction to microwavable instant mashed potatoes. Could Ramen really be a gateway food? Your cholesterol alone might have the answer.

Another common edible addiction is chocolate. Oh, sure, we joke about chocoholics and their insatiable appetite for Russell Stover. Some claim they can't make it even through an entire day without a handful of Hershey's Kisses. But as chocoholics grow more and more dependent on the substance, they require treats much more lavishing than a common Snickers.

A certain amount of chocolate snobbery begins to overwhelm the taste buds of chocoholics, leaving them with an unnerving desire for Lindt truffles or other expensive delicacies. No, it's not cocaine, but it might as well be for all the wasted money and added poundage. At least crack won't push you up three dress sizes. An anonymous chocoholic friend of mine professed to me that if she doesn't eat some chocolate by lunch she begins to feel like the walls are closing in on her. Take it from me, she also gets whiney. Really whiney.

While the addicts are having a blast, everyone around them will usually find them to be obnoxious, rude and selfish. I believe Robert Palmer said it best in the 80s when he sang, "Might as well face it you're addicted to love." Obviously these are the words of a jaded, bitter man annoyed with a love-sick friend. And why not? People in love are actually more nails-on-a-chalk-board painful to listen to than any off-key collegiate a cappella group. They're actually mind-numbingly agonizing. They can actually induce vomiting.

Love is a many splendor thing that actually produced phenylethalamine in the system of someone who has fallen victim to it. This chemical, i.e., "the love molecule," is a natural chemical similar to an amphetamine. According to Dr. Gary Spink, this actually creates the high you can only achieve while in a lip-lock with a hottie, and I don't mean a joint. Spink explains that the powerful emotions linked to racing pulses, sweaty palms and heavy breathing can be clinically explained as the byproduct of an overdose of good old phenylethalamine.

We all know that money can't buy you love, but it certainly can buy you all the prostitutes you can handle! While it might seem like a vile addiction to some, others can relate to the addiction of sex. Drugs are awfully dangerous and hard to come by, not to mention illegal if found in your possession. Luckily for sex addicts and lust-driven zealots, prostitution is most often consummated in an uncomfortable faux-leather bucket seat as inconspicuously as possible. Maybe Palmer was on to something.

For those of us who are more fond of vanilla than chocolate and have yet to meet our soul mate, we find ourselves addicted to something nearly as good: music. You know that song that really speaks to you? The one that you might actually play in the trailer of the movie of your life? The lyrics, the chorus that you absentmindedly doodle beside your class notes, totally describe your life! The guitar riff - oh God! Suddenly, the song is on constant repeat on your computer, blasting from your car speakers and puttering around in your head when you try to fall asleep. If you could only whistle it, you would whistle it everywhere you went, but you can't so you stick to humming and mumbling in the shower.

It seems like people these days get themselves addicted even to the most mundane forms of happiness. Women will often call themselves shopaholics, as if labeling their lack of control at the mall as an addiction somehow makes up for blowing their paychecks on the semiannual sales at Victoria's Secret. Shifting the blame away from our own flaws and hiding under the classification addict doesn't seem to always make sense. How can anyone truly be physically and mentally dependent on shopping unless there are minute traces of nicotine in those plastic shopping bags?

Most addicts manage a careful balancing act of denial and withdrawal. After all, you can't eat chocolate every moment of your life and you certainly can't listen to the same song every waking hour or gettin' it on without your roommate devising a sophisticated way of faking your suicide.

All I know is that Robert Palmer died last month of a heart attack. Coincidence, or act of God? You deicide.