One Day at a Time

Fuck weeks, months, and years.  One day at a time is the only way I can stay sober.  It's the only way I can get through the workday.  It's the only way I can get through the day.  It's the only way I can survive.

Human

 
It occurred to me that I'm not good at being a human being.  I don't like doing many of the things that humans do: driving a car, putting on socks,  putting on shoes, putting on shirts, putting on pants, putting on underwear, taking those things off again, showering, flossing, brushing my teeth, making coffee, cooking, cleaning, dealing with shitty people, receiving bills, paying bills, seeing commercials, seeing ads, working at shitty jobs, applying for shitty jobs, doing laundry, and so on.  I'm not good at making decisions.  When you're a human, there are so many choices to make.  There are so many things to remember.  It's too complicated.
I'm much more of an animal.  I'm good at eating and lying around.  Of course I believe that humans are animals; we have so many things in common with them.  We just happen to be the worst, most destructive, animals to ever walk the Earth.  It's quite possible I'll soon be forced to live like an animal: outside.  Suicide is also an option.  Sometimes I think I'd like to leave this society, but it's hard to imagine life without toilet paper and ass washing.  I know I mentioned I don't like showers, and it's true, but they, like many things, are a necessary evil.
I want to make clear that even though I object to working at any of these places, because they serve meat, I applied for jobs there anyway, becasue I was trying to SURVIVE: McDonald's, Panera Bread, and DiBella's Subs.  I didn't hear back from any of them: no interest whatsoever.  Where's the hope?

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.