> Be the Sea Dweller Lowblood.
This is actually a pretty typical afternoon for you.
There are rarely times when you do not hate being a SEA DWELLER. Being at the bottom of the hemospectrum is a death sentence, no more and no less, slower and more painful than being repeatedly keelhauled until your body falls apart. On days like this, you half consider slicing off your own fins. It won't change your blood color, but even a perpetually-stoned clown-worshipping SUBJUGGLATOR would have a better shot at filling his quadrants than you.
But self-mutilation would probably make your hangover worse.
You wonder what you did yesterday.
Your name is ERIDAN AMPORA, you have a ROTTEN BANANA PEEL on your head, and for some reason you CANNOT SEE OUT OF YOUR RIGHT EYE.
You are ten solar sweeps old and fast approaching your eleventh wriggling day, and in a single night you filled and lost both your concupiscent quadrants. Of course, as usual, you BLAME THE STATUS QUO RATHER THAN YOUR OWN FAILINGS.
In lieu of your childhood GENOCIDE COMPLEX, which you developed in hopes of forcing people to pay a little more attention to you, you have developed a NEARLY SOCIOPATHIC INABILITY TO PITY ANYBODY BUT YOURSELF, and a corresponding FANATICAL NEED TO FORCE YOUR ACQUAINTANCES TO PITY YOU. Both your former genocide complex and your current pity-mongering stem from the same need, but, oddly enough, the GENOCIDE COMPLEX MIGHT HAVE BEEN HEALTHIER.
You have an obsession with SOCIO-POLITICAL HISTORY AND REVOLUTIONARY LEADERS. Due to the controversial nature of your idols and your ideals, you must keep quiet about them in most situations, and thus you constantly INTERNALLY JUDGE AND CRITIQUE THE SOCIO-POLITICAL FORCES at work around you. Your tendency to personalize all of these forces and assume they are out to get you leads to IMPASSIONED EMOTIONAL OUTBURSTS, and thus most people tend to regard you as a BIT OF A FOOL.
Even though you no longer want genocide, it is still your dream to somehow OVERTHROW ALL LAND DWELLERS in order to ascend to a less benighted social status. Failing that, you would be glad to THROW AWAY YOUR SEA DWELLER SOLIDARITY and ascend to a less benighted social status all by yourself, like a MERMAID PRINCESS RESCUED BY A ROYAL KNIGHT.
Whether you are shooting for revolution, riches, or romance, you live by one and only one rule: to NEVER GIVE UP HOPE.
You suppose you had better get this peel off your horn, fix whatever is wrong with your glasses, and figure out where you are. Regardless of yesterday's comedy of errors, you cannot simply take a break from your full-time job: attempting to fill your empty quadrants. You're not gonna successfully woo anybody if you smell like a dumpster.
After all, you did not successfully woo anybody when you smelled like a sewer, did you?
What will you do?
And who are you wooing in which quadrant, anyway?
... As if there is any question.
As if there is ANY question!
You had them.
You had them both.
Two quadrants filled in a single night. BOTH concupiscent quadrants! You were READY for the fucking imperial drone! YOU WERE SET!
And now you are back where you were this time yesterday.
With no matesprit and no kismesis.
Well, THIS time, you are not about to give up and start over. You had the pity and love of a highblood, and you had the hatred of the Imperious Grand Advisier and descendant of the Sanguine Sufferer.
And if you DIDN'T have that, THEN YOU WILL YET.
So you know exactly who you are going to woo.
And you know exactly what you are going to do.
> Do the singy thing.