/lit/ - Literature

I'm useless. At this point I'm just existing to wagecuck for my bosses. I have no one to protect (not that anyone wants my protection), no drive to exist, nothing. I look around my apartment (picrel) and I see nothing. A notification pops up and it's just Snapchat reminding how exciting my life used to be five years ago. I don't create, support, or love anything. I am part of the idiotic consumer mass and that's all there is to say about my life. An average John, a rando, and nothing more. Except even the average John has something to live for and a smudge of self respect and I lack both of these so I'm not even that. I don't feel the need to be something else. If life was a race, I'm a guy running on the wrong track and wearing the wrong jersey. Billions of years and a billions of billions upon billions of billions of nanoscopic events piling up to result in the existence of someone who will never appear in any books, nor be reminded by anyone. As your eyes scan over these lines, your brain is probably searching for something familiar but there is nothing to be found, I assure you. For all I'm worth I might as well be an ant and even an ant is working for something greater.

Life doesn't even suck in these conditions. I know I'm just passing by. My family is nonexistent. I'm an extra no one cares about. Anyone can do better.