I heard once that a warning sign of addiction is when you start planning to make sure you don't run out of supply. It's a poor excuse for why I filled my car with books, but it's all I've got.
I've stuffed the glovebox with paperbacks. A copy of Vasari's Lives made the cut at the expense of the owner's manual. A compartment under the front seat was just big enough to fit another three novels. Neal Stephensen's Anathem fights for room with Herbert's Dune, while Asimov's Foundation glares at them both from its corner. I removed my spare tire from the trunk to make room for a textbook on geology and a copy of Turing’s Cathedral. These are not the actions of a rational person.
It's not just books. Paraphernalia also gets the royal treatment. Headlamps, notebooks, and writing utensils have found their way into every nook and cranny. I stashed a few pencil sharpeners too, just in case the pens run out of ink. A wasted moment without a book fills me with the same anxiety as a smoker waiting for a layover.
I've filled my brain with words instead of chemicals, but it's still the result of an addictive substance.