Wondering what's the use

2/4 will be 2 months since Spike's passing.  It still tears at me.  It makes me want to cut so goddamn fucking bad.  I feel as if my heart has this scar (like the one on my upper left bicep) ... the one that I <3 to reopen again & again to remind myself how worthless life & it's ensuing relationships are.  I haven't cut @ all in these past two months, & many days that alone marvels me. Someone recently told me I need to love more which is such a stinking crock of shit.  Love is what got me where I am.  Some people think it's time for me to adopt a new kitty.  But is Tigger ready?  Am I?  Do I want to fall in love again?   I don't attach myself to humans (except children like my nephew) because their love is always conditional, always predicated on some sort of reciprocity, always tied to some sort of expectations.  I never feel good enough for that.  W/ cats, you feed them, you pet them, keep 'em clean, & they love you.  It's pure & it's simple.  And they won't turn their backs on you, because you're an ugly piece of shit & a sorry-ass excuse for a human being.  For crying aloud, Spike once kept me from committing suicide.  Humans don't do that.  They're too fucking self-involved (myself obviously included) to give a rat's ass.  Besides, as far as I'm concerned, humanity is a god-awful stain upon this planet.   Right now, if you're reading this, & you don't know me, you're saying, "Why doesn't she just kill herself & get it over with if she's so damn miserable?!"  And I won't argue w/ your logic.  Fucking hell, I think of it often, fantasize about that day.  Truth be told, I'm chicken shit.  I don't have the courage to do it.  If I did, trust me, I wouldn't be here writing this.  I'd be amidst a void of nothingness, no longer tied to this wretched human shell, this sorry waste of O2.  But until I ever get that courage, I'll dream of the day, the perfect way in which I will wipe my wasted existence from this world. Now you say, "She needs help."  Been there.  Done that.  In fact, I'm now @ that point (why does it always feel I go full circle on this), where I want off my meds.  They're so fucking obviously not helping (gee, can't you tell).  And therapists are a waste of my time & $.  I should know.  I've seen enough.  None of them get it.  They just recite some dumb REBT shit.  And trust me, I've been plenty receptive.  It's just NOTHING sticks for long. So, yeah, I just felt the need to ramble.  Had to get all that shit out of my system, & I don't want to bore anyone IRL w/ this shit.  They don't need my baggage.  It's my burden, my cross to carry.  And you know me, I never shirk my responsibility. So, yeah, what IS the use of going on?  Is it the hope of things getting better?  Hope against the odds?  And I'm no gambler.  Or am I?  Dunno ... I guess I just keep going on because it's the past of least resistance.