You want to bury your good memories, because that’s who you are. You’re nothing but a bundle of self-loathing who takes great pains in letting themselves fester and rot in the sun. You prey on those who take pity on you because you know deep down inside that no one could ever love you, except those who think you’re so pathetic that they have no other choice in the matter. You’re a child. A touch starved, emotionally stunted mess of a being that has no redeeming qualities to speak of. You know it in your heart that if you ever made an effort to talk to people, they would only come to find out what an insufferable, intolerable person you really are. All of your current “friends” only act pleasant around you because you’ve forced them to—they’re decent people with strong moral grounding. They tolerate you more or less out of sheer obligation. And yes, they tolerate you for now, but how much longer can you make it last? How much longer until you emotionally tire them out? Until they can’t afford to let you drain them of their own happiness? You wretched beast, spurned by God—you’ve got one foot in the grave already—why don’t you just end it all, while you’re ahead? All you do is generate suffering. Killing yourself would be a service to all humanity.