At this point it feels like my entire existence is just being other people's entertainment

I don't give a shit about surviving. My stupid retarded brain can make as many delusions of grandeur and capability of doing something great and "making it out the trenches" and whatever as it wants, but i always just end up in the same place: Not wanting to be alive anymore. And I'm fine with that. I want to die. As long as I stop being conscious to perceive myself and the world around me, or in other words, go to sleep forever, I'm happy.

But people around me don't give a shit about that. They don't give a fuck about how i feel. I'm not a human to them. I'm an object, I'm just a fucking source of entertainment, because let's face it: There's nothing bad that's going to happen to me if I die, not unless the Christians turn out to be correct about the afterlife (but that's a whole other discussion in and of itself). But They don't care about how I feel, they only care about how they feel. About how it's going to affect them.

And it's not like it's some huge loss if I die. I'm not a single father of five or a big influential figure or whatever. I'm some gross fucking teenager who helps my father out with manual labor sometimes and that's it. The worst thing that's going to come out of my death is that my father won't have an offsider for his manual labor and my dog won't have anyone to hang out with because my father is either too busy with manual labor or too busy relaxing after a day of manual labor. The only person who genuinely loses something is my dog, and nobody gives a fuck about him anyway because they're incapable of understanding that others have feelings too (including dogs) (which is pretty much the entire crux of the problem I'm ranting about!). So for anyone other than my dog, it's not like there's going to be some huge gaping hole that nothing's ever going to fill in my absence.

They don't care about that. They care about what I am to them, and let's be real, that's nothing more than a laugh or someone to help move a couch. As long as I'm there, what I'm going through doesn't matter in the fucking slightest. It doesn't matter if i'm some miserable lonely fuck with no direction and no will to live, who exists only for my father's customers to laugh at while i drop a couch on my fingers. I don't matter. They do. If they were a bit stupider, I'd be able to put up a cardboard cutout of myself in my room and nobody would tell the difference, but i don't have that luxury, so i guess it's tough tits for me.

That's all thanks for reading