I want to die. My whole life is one long joke, and I’m the terrible punchline. I’m useless and fat and ugly and untalented. I’ve been trying to get an office job instead of working at s***** restaurants but no one will take me. I’m disappointed but not surprised. I don’t have money, a car, friends, or hobbies. I just sit in front of a screen all day, and even that just makes me feel bored and useless. I can’t even m********* because I’m on a high dosage of depression medication, so I’m basically a walking corpse. If I died today there wouldn’t be a lot of people who would miss me, and I can almost guarantee I’d be quickly forgotten. I’ve never done anything worth remembering. What I really want is to die in an accident, like a car wreck or a plane crash. I could die completely guilt free, and my parents would never have to deal with the embarrassment of their failure child killing themselves. I’m a f****** loser. I’m disgusting. I’m worse than a cockroach. I want this pain to end, but it’s probably what I deserve for being such a f*** up. I fantasize about buying razor blades and slitting my wrists in a dense forest where no one could find me. I want to fly thousands of miles from my home and jump off the Golden Gate Bridge. I would destroy any identification I have, and no one would be able to identify my body. I would be nothing but an anonymous slab of rotting meat. There’s a train close to my house, and I could get drunk and lay across the tracks and be a red smear by morning. People always tell you that it’ll get better, and that’s a f****** lie. Things will get better for them perhaps, but when you’re a loser like me things don’t get better, they just change in to a different s***** situation. If wishes were ver supposed to come true, I would’ve been dead at least ten years ago.

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