Cocaine
"You're damned," Tracy used to say whenever she saw him pull the tiny silver container from his pocket, not even bothering to be discreet anymore. His father had given it to him for his birthday when he was seven years old. He never would have expected it to be used for his son's cocaine habit. The white powder that meant so much yet appeared to be nothing special at all. But it was -- it was (almost) everything to him. Almost.
And she was right. He was damned. Damned to an eternity of cocaine, alcohol, and tacos. All of them needs, not wants. Cocaine to keep him going, alcohol to drown in, and tacos to fill that hole in his heart. He didn't understand what it was about the tacos. But he knew that needed them. Just like he needed the cocaine.