It's not easy, living these mood swings. Mostly it's hard not to talk about them without appearing needy of attention. Please, this isn't me. The real me is nothing like this. You'd like the real me. Some optimism there, I guess, I still think of the less frequent as the real. But the real is what is there. And the real me begs. Begs for scraps of sympathy. Eliciting pity. I turn into a leech the more this condition spirals farther out of my control. Sheer, utter desperation to belong in the society of man. I don't want to be alone, God help me. And for that, I hate and loath myself. I have often wondered if this is how a man who knows how to swim feels as he tries to drown himself. Complete and unmitigated self-hatred draws him like a siren to swim to exhaustion into deepest waters, but that base animal instinct to fight to take in air, it makes him kick, kick to live. Let me die. Let me live. Two wills in a single body wage war upon each other. Self-mutilation. The smell of blood. It's no wonder I am alone. The uninfected have their instincts as well. They see dirty blood for what it is, even the vampires know better. They keep a safe radius. Jealously I take swipes at them. They walk past me in nonchalance. I have no weapons and my attempts to draw them into my circle is so easily fended off as to require no energy at all. I am simply a ghost. My heaviest blows are as useless as a small gust of wind. They move on, the pedestrians. My bitterness takes no one down but me. Me myself and I. I. I. shoot myself in the foot each and every day with this consumptive jealousy. Am I as obvious as that? I love you. Bang. I love you. Bang. Bang. Bang.