 If I'm being honest, everything just sort of feels like a distraction. Eating, sleeping, watching shows, talking to people—it's all done in an attempt to stop thinking about it. I'm just living for the sake of living, and it's genuinely awful. There's no meaning to any of what I'm doing. And the most people can say is "There are people that care about you" or "You'll get through it", which does nothing besides piss me off. See, animals are supposed to have purposes, right? Bees pollinate. Beavers make dams. Squirrels bury seeds. What the hell are humans supposed to do? Why are we here? It just feels like my parents fucked one day, and now I'm just stuck here until I die. I don't want your sympathy, nor do I want someone to ask how I'm doing: I want to mean something. I sit around at home and dick around because I can't seem to get a job or feel even remotely interested in my old hobbies, and I've done that just about every day this summer. I'm not even remotely suicidal, honestly. I'm just sick of pretending there's some sort of merit in "getting to relax" when all I've done is waste away for two months.