Diary of a Wimpy Vampire by Tim Collins Page A

poetry of even greater intensity than before. My poems are now getting so profound they don’t even rhyme.
    THE HUNTER
    If I am the biter why am I bitten?
      If I am the attacker why am I attacked?
        If I am the hunter why am I hunted
          By despair?
    In the future, scholars will look back on this period as a great time for my art. But that doesn’t matter to me. I write poetry to express myself and I don’t care what anyone else thinks about it.
    Note to self: Look into possibility of getting poems published.
    M ONDAY 18 TH A PRIL
    I ventured out of the house today to try and get some air, but I soon wished I hadn’t when I saw Wayne and Chloe waiting together at the bus stop. They were getting the number 32 to the leisure mart, perhaps to go bowling, see a film or get a pizza.

    And while they enjoy the taste of mozzarella, pepperoni and cheese-filled crusts, I shall taste only bitter despair. With an extra topping of depression.
    ( Note to self: Look into possibility of bequeathing diary to the British Library. These insights into heartbreak must not be lost.)
    Perhaps I should leave town. Mum and Dad reckon we’re the last vampires left, but I bet there are still some other undead families they don’t know about in places like Sweden and Alaska.
    Or maybe I’ll be killed by a vampire slayer, and then my poetry will be discovered and the world will realize what it’s lost. Too late, world. You should have appreciated me when you had the chance.
    T UESDAY 19 TH A PRIL
    I popped out to buy the new issue of my computer games magazine this morning and I heard an old lady complaining about a recent illness in the newsagent. It sounded suspicious, so I took a close look at her neck, and sure enough there were a couple of bite marks right above the collar of her blouse.
    I can’t believe my parents have been up to their tricks yet again! They are insatiable! It’s difficult enough coping with a broken heart without having to worry about an angry mob driving a stake through it because they’ve discovered my true identity. And all because my parents cannot be bothered to go further afield to hunt for me. They are so lazy.
    As usual, they denied everything when I confronted them this evening, but who else could have done it?
    W EDNESDAY 20 TH A PRIL
    I was scared to go out today in case I saw Wayne and Chloe again. It would simply be more than I could stand to see that rotten-toothed fool parading around with the only girl I have ever loved. But I couldn’t face another day of staring at my wall either, so I went to the shopping precinct and sat on a bench. An old man stood next to me and said he could see I was troubled. At least somebody noticed!
    He asked me what the problem was, but when I started to tell him, it didn’t take long for him to twist the conversation to the subject of Jesus. I looked up and saw that he was handing out flyers for the local church youth group. His crucifix pendant was dangling right in my face, so now I’ve got a horrible migraine as well as severe depression. I think I’ll stay in tomorrow.
    T HURSDAY 21 ST A PRIL
    Today was so pointless that when I tried to write about it a moment ago, my pen ran out because it couldn’t take the boredom. It took me ages to find a new one and after all that effort I can exclusively reveal that nothing interesting happened today.

    I stayed in bed this morning, and this afternoon I went for a walk and kicked over a traffic cone in anger. A moment later I started feeling guilty and went back to put it upright again. How pathetic. I’m supposed to be a prince of darkness, and I can’t even overturn a traffic cone.
    Another brilliant day, then.
    Note: I was being ironic in that last statement. Thought I might need to point that out in case my sister steals my diary and reads it again.
    F RIDAY 22 ND A PRIL
    I have written a new poem today. I will let it speak for itself.
    THE PREDATOR
    I am the predator
      Who wants to