If you are a masochist, unrequited love is definietly for you. It never goes away, you can pull it out for a perverse pleasure when you're hankering for some pain, and you can practice whining and write either really shitty, bitter poetry, or really good, bitter poetry, while under its encompassing influence. I personally am a hedonist of the 20th Century sort, and dispise this state of being greatly. And, of course, I am also in it. RRRRRRR. It makes me want to drink, and chain smoke, and let out impromptu streams of expletives at will. It makes me bitter. I have one question in my mind, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to ask it. It can be phrased so many different ways, with convenient wording, flowery verbage, one can weep while doing it, or ask it in passing, to throw the object of affection for a loop. It can be asked in jest, in all seriousness, while on the roof of a fifty story building. It's a really bad party favor, like that confetti everyone buys at Hallmark and you find months later in the crack of your sock drawer. An appropriate follow up of the unrequited love binge is a large dose of self pity brought to a close with some cathartic experience of your choosing. Things can get ugly when unrequited love in involved, and this sort of thing doesn't generally love company.