We became friends because we understood each other but it turns out you don’t understand me. I do drugs not just to get high. I do them to escape. They are the only time I don’t notice how much of a useless piece of shit I am. I’m fucking sick. Plain and simple. I’m not going to get better. My anti-depressants can’t be upped any higher, I’m a lost cause. They say that everyone has a purpose in life; my purpose is to hold on and be a laughing stock of everyone I meet until I fucking have the balls to kill myself. You, my mother, my therapists, everyone, says I have to want to get better. I don’t want to get better. I’m afraid to get better. I can’t and won’t get better. The only reason I’m still here is to hold on until you stop fucking caring about me then I can finally kill myself. I used to be something wonderful. Now all I do is waste space and steal oxygen from people who can actually do something in life. I’m a worthless fuck up and you know it. You can’t name one positive or beneficial thing I’ve done in the past two and a half years. I’m just waiting until we go our separate ways so I can finally be happy. With my brain splatter all over the fucking wall. When I do finally kill myself I have specific plans for what I want at my funeral. I want an open casket. I don’t care what my head looks like, I want an open casket and I want to be wearing the same clothes I killed my self in. I want to leave a mark. I want people to see how fucking awful this world is that the only solace I could find was in violently killing myself. I want it so slap them in the fucking face. They need to see that this isn’t some sick fucking joke. This isn’t a game. I’m not all of your fucking laughing stocks.