No worst, there is none

Just who am I? What am I? I have been asking myself the same question over and over for the past couple of hours. What have I done that is of note?
The answer to the third defines the answer to the first two. What have I done? Nothing at all. I have not won any particularly prestigious awards, I don't excel in any particular area, nor am I successful with the ladies. So therefore, this in mind, what am I?
The only thing I can think of as I turn these questions over and over in my mind is nothing. Or trash. Whichever one you take. Trash sounds more interesting. My academic record is VERY mediocre, I'm nothing good to look at (testament to the fact that the majority of my friends are guys), I don't have money (in fact, as of this post, I am broke), nor am I physically fit. So what am I? Useless, worthless trash. Domineering parents steer my every move, invade my privacy, arbitrarily control almost every move I make. I can't break out of this house because that requires money, and I have none. I have no transport, so I can't escape this house. Almost everything that makes me happy my parents disapprove of, my friends are distant and either simply leave me alone, or seemingly forget about me until I remind them that I'm there. I don't blame them, since I've been doing the same thing - not talking to them through MSN or trying to arrange to see them more. I've grown apart from them, in some ways, I suppose, and now my social web (as well as my mental web) is cracking.

Escape is one of the only things I know I want to do, but am unable to, due to the fact I have no money, nor do I think that I have any friends who'd willingly let me crash at their place for a few weeks. The escape that comes from the slash across (or down, I can't remember which) the wrist seeems appealing, yet when I raise the knife to do it, I find my resolve falters. I'm so weak. I can't even escape that way. In the end, all I do is trace the knife up and down my wrist, leaving faint red lines along them and maybe a white one from the gentle press of the knife.
I look to the window, and think perhaps simply dashing my brains on the cement might be good. But no, I can't even bring myself to get up and even open the windowsill. My resolve is not iron, but brittle.

My so-called "mother" acts the victim, constantly moaning that she does all the housework herself, and that noone helps her. Why not ask my so-called "father" to help her? All he does is sit down and watch TV or tend to his business in one way or the other. Not like he does much aside from working outside the house to earn money. Oh wow, he works like a dog to earn money, pay the bills. Well, fuck you. Noone ever asked you to do the housework, it's something you do yourself. You are controlling, domineering, pontificating, hypocritical, materialistic and opinionated as fuck. On good days, you pass for tolerable. On bad days, you are nothing but a bitch with a axe to grind on my head.
To "father:" you are prejudiced, spiteful, patronising, so fucking high and mighty, and act as though your shit smells like fucking perfume. On good days you might pass for "nice person." Usually, you act as though you are fucking God, and that your word is gospel, and that you know everything there is to know about everything. Well, guess what. You know NOTHIHNG at all about your so-called "son." You have never ever supported him, never ever encouraged him, never ever turned up to give positive support. It's always "Why couldn't you do better? You MUST do better, or else I will do something bad to you!"

I ask myself again. What am I? What can I do best? What will I amount to? The answer to those three questions appears to be nothing. I can't even end my own existence, I'm so worthless.

Oblivion and fading away looks ever more enticing, but how ...