I’d never heard the phrase “addicted to love” uttered outside a Robert Palmer video or bad poetry until a few years ago, when a bad breakup drove me temporarily insane. After endless cocktail hours listening to me cry and obsess over what went wrong in my seven-month relationship, my girlfriend gently suggested that I get professional help. I asked if this was like the Sex and the City episode where Carrie’s friends cut her off. She told me that our friends were feeling more like the passengers in Airplane!, who hung and stabbed themselves rather than be subjected to yet another sob story about the guy’s ex-love. The next day I was in therapy being diagnosed as a love addict.