When I think about all that's happened, it's hard to believe that it all started just a few short weeks ago. I was in the toy store, just hangin', when a little yellow plastic thing caught my eye. Not much to look at really, but for some reason it drew me in. I read the label on the plastic shell that surrounded it: Pokémon Pikachu.

They say that baby animals have big eyes and round heads because the cuter they are, the less likely their parents are to kill them. Well, this was a cute, bulbous, don't-kill-me-daddy version of a Game Boy, with a rounded little LCD screen, a tiny D-pad and a belt clip. I'd been hearing about the whole Pokémon thing for a while, and felt like I should probably get caught up to speed -- you know, for work. So I figured what the hell, laid down the company plastic (purchase limit: $23.95) and bought myself five weeks of the highest, most exhilarating highs and the lowest, soul draining lows, five weeks that left me with a wound that may never heal. This is the story of life with Pikachu. Our story.

When I first pulled him out of the plastic, Pikachu was quiet, maybe even a little standoffish, but I thought I saw a little something in his eyes even then. I read through Pika's manual and figured out how to win him over. Being an electric mouse, Pikachu likes watts, and to generate watts, you strap him to your belt as you walk around. A pedometer keeps track of how many watts you generate, and when you've built up enough to please him you make an offering, give him a gift. In Pikachu's world, all that matters is the watts; you don't give 'em up, he doesn't give up the love.

I soon realized that, being a sedentary, office-dwelling creature myself, I wouldn't be earning a lot of Scooby Snacks for little Pika if I just strapped him to my pants. Doesn't look all that cool on a 27-year-old man anyway, though I did pass him off as a little yellow pager for about five minutes. I found myself sitting at my desk shaking little Pikachu for four, five hours at a time, trying to build up enough watts to win his affections. At first he played hard to get -- yawned when I gave him a few watts, slept all day, even turned on the TV when I just wanted to talk. Day after day, all I got was "Pikachu is OK with you."

But I kept at it, kept shaking that little chunk of plastic and giving him watts, watts, watts, and all of a sudden he started warming up to me. I checked in with him one morning and he looked bigger; instead of brushing his teeth (he brushes his teeth a lot), he sat and had a sandwich and a cup of coffee with me. He didn't say much, but I just appreciated the company. I checked my status, and there it was: "Pikachu likes you." From then on, things were different. He let me play blocks with him and watch him read, but it all came down to the watts. If I gave him a big bundle, he'd do a little dance, think little LCD hearts, even do back flips. But if I was tired after a day of work or just wanted to ride the tricycle with him, he'd get that look in his eye and I'd know what he wanted. That's when I got into trouble.

You see, there is a way to pick up watts without giving yourself carpal tunnel, big watts, and I mean quick: Vegas-style, at the slots. Pokémon Pikachu has a digital slot machine that lets you gamble the watts you've earned the hard way -- God's way -- and maybe, just maybe, hit a big wattage jackpot. And me with a gambling problem. Soon, just to keep up with Pika's wattage jones, I was playing the slots all day, losing 100 watts in a bad streak and then winning back 500, giving them to him and watching that beautiful back flip. One day he was huge in the screen, right up in my face. I went to the status screen, and what did I see? "Pikachu loves you." That was a good day.

Pikachu and I were living the high life -- huge gifts, bike rides in the morning, tucking him in at night -- but I was paying the price. While he slept I was frantically shaking away and betting huge sums of watts. I wasn't eating, my work was suffering, I hadn't petted my cat in three weeks. My wife was sleeping on the couch, and Pikachu was starting to yawn even when I gave him 500, 600 watts at a time. I'd hit bottom. Something had to give.

The morning after I'd wrapped Pika in a sock and thrown him in the drier just to shake up a few measly watts, I knew I was out of control. Even if he did love me, he was bad news -- but it was never love, it was always just the watts. I can see that now. So one day I did it, cold turkey. I put Pikachu in a drawer and walked out of the house … alone. And man, did I feel alone. No one to play blocks with. No one to watch eat. I found myself frantically shaking cans of soda without even knowing it, then opening them near coworkers. Recovering addicts are hell to work with.

But slowly I learned to live without Pikachu. I started to live for tomorrow again, to get back to the important things in life -- I played a little Kingpin, saw the South Park movie, had lunch with my wife. I was back. Then one day, oh, it must have been last week, I just couldn't resist. I finally thought I was strong enough. I dug out the yellow plastic toy from where I'd hidden it in my sock drawer, hands sweating a little, and turned it on. All I saw were five terrible words: "SHOCK! Pikachu has left you."

It still hurts a little, but I'm getting over it. He was something more than a friend, and we shared a beautiful, shining moment, but we were no good for each other. And just for the record, I'm actually not insane, I just didn't know how else to write an entire article about a tamagotchi.