Meaningless Existence

That's what mine is.  I wasn't brought into this world because I was wanted; I was a mistake.  My mother literally called me that one day.  She said I was a mistake.  Interesting that she would call me a mistake when I didn't make the mistake.  But my mother is like so many adults; she refuses to take responsibility for anything.  Every mistake she makes is somehow someone else's fault.  According to her, it wasn't her fault she got knocked up as a teen, it was my father's.  He promised to pull out, but he didn't.
I sink lower and lower.  If I don't land a job soon, the money I can borrow from my credit card will run out.  I'm trying.  I'm trying to survive, even though, with depression and OCD, I don't see many reasons to.  Everyday, I'm thinking of ways to kill myself that will succeed without causing me too much pain.  Today I did laundry.  If I wasn't considering suicide, I would not have laundered a particular pair of pants.  These pants are workout pants, and they're really not my thing.  They're spandex-like.  I washed them, because I thought they'd be good for hanging myself in.  Perhaps they could catch my shit that would doubtlessly emanate from my ass after I died.  Why care about shit on the carpet when you're dead? you might ask.  What if I failed, and I didn't die, but I shit the carpet?
There is so much to write: so much to express.  But it really seems like  time is running out for me.