I am a moral support machine.

Everyone has their fair share of troubles in life. I do not believe that a person would survive on this planet and remain sane if they did not have at least one person to confess their secrets to. Throughout my life, I have prided myself on being that person that everyone can run to. If no one else, they can talk to me, and I will listen. I cannot fix every problem, I cannot make everyone feel better in an instant, but I do care, and I do listen to every word.

Sometimes, though, I wish someone could be my moral support machine.

Don't get me wrong; I do have friends that I can talk to when I'm upset. I have people that know all the right words to say to cheer me up in that moment, but that feeling does not last. This is my own fault. I honestly cannot remember what it feels like to be happy anymore.

I know how incredibly dramatic that sounds. I realize that I am a whiner. But I am unhappy, and not in a light sense of the word. I literally do not remember what it feels like to want to wake up in the morning, or to look forward to something happening.

I want someone that will get me out of the house when I can' possibly look at its walls anymore. I want a friend that will give me five minutes to cry, and then slap me into shape and make me do something I love doing. I want a friend that will sing me to sleep when my thoughts are keeping me from it. I want a friend that will hang out and do absolutely nothing with me, and yet everything.

I don't need new friends. I just need for that one person to teach me how to keep that happiness when I am not with people who can distract me from my unhappiness. Someone who can teach me to love me.

Because I sure as hell don't know how to.

Two Lives

We are all guilty of treason against ourselves, for we all lead double lives. One life is the life we are physically living. The other life is no less real, no less important, and no less impacting. Our treasonous life is the life we live in our dreams. It is the life of wishes, dreams, hopes, and imagination. The root of unhappiness is the chasm between these two lives. As the chasm widens, deepens, and becomes more jagged, more and more unhappiness festers. We realize that the life we live in our dreams becomes further and further away, and so we sink. Every difference in our treason is one step deeper into depression.

Do yourself a favor--life the life you dream of, close that gap, and live innocent of treason.

Fuck you, Girls Gone Wild.

I don't sleep very well at night. My brain won't shut up long enough for me to drift off. I usually try to watch television long enough to turn myself into a zombie and just pass out. Last night was no exception. I was flipping through the menu, when I noticed that Comedy Central was airing an old performance of George Carlin's. If you know only one thing about me, know this: I think George Carlin is a certified genius. I absolutely love that man. Anyway, while I was watching his stand-up, there were naturally commercials.

Let's examine this closely. It's 2 a.m. on a "Saturday night," I am watching a foul-mouthed comedian whose stand-up actually has a parental advisory on it, and this is Comedy Central. Got all that? It's only common sense that one would expect slightly raunchy commercials on at this hour.

But, let me tell you, last night was a little excessive.

During every single commercial break, I had to watch an infomercial for a Girls Gone Wild DVD set. During a few commercial breaks, this was the only commercial that would play. The George Carlin special was two hours long. If there were commercials every fifteen minutes (most likely), I saw a plethora of naked women around eight times.

We all know what Girls Gone Wild entails. College-aged females whip their boobs and vaginas out in front of a camera. Woo for originality. Sometimes the women are completely naked; sometimes they're kissing other girls or getting smashed. Who fucking cares? What they do is not what bothered me so much about seeing this infomercial 945804750498 times in one night. As usual, it's the implied message that pisses me off.

What was the announcer shouting while a thousand boobies bounced around on my screen? "We're looking for the hottest girl in America!"

Alright, alright--I understand that men find these women attractive. Most of them are. They're thin, but not string beans; they have nice breasts (for the most part); they lack inhibition, which is a turn-on for most guys; and they have plenty of general sex appeal. What's so frustrating about that? The women they show for candidates as "the hottest girl in America" are nothing what I look like. So, the message the television is sending me is that I am in no way attractive or sexy.

And I haven't even talked about the second DVD yet. I suppose it isn't that major, but I was still offended. The second DVD was a compilation of the best breasts that the producers had seen. Because of all the boobs I got to see, I have proof of what I have said all along: my boobs are not large enough to be visually pleasing. A-cups are just not acceptable in this country.

I was pretty upset over all of this last night. I mean, no one likes to be reminded that the majority of their society doesn't find them appealing or what have you. I've had zero self-esteem since the beginning of my life. I've bitched and whined and cried about it way too many times in my life. But after I went through that low point last night, and after I had slept a few hours, I woke up just pissed off about the whole situation.

I was angry that I had even been upset about this particular definition of attractiveness and sexiness. I was angry that I had let beauty be defined by drunk, trashy women with absolutely no sense of morals. I'm sorry I don't show my boobs on camera every chance I get. I'm sorry I don't feel the need to make out with other females. I'm sorry that naked hula-hooping isn't my idea of a good time when a thousand people are watching me. But mostly, I am genuinely sorry that I tried to define myself by the type of women that I despise the most. Never again will I bother to compare myself to people who define exactly what is wrong with the world.

Fuck you, Girls Gone Wild. I AM desirable, and you can stop trying to convince me otherwise.

Break My Heart

I've read countless blogs on the topic of "How To Win My Heart." Such blogs and essays can be interesting, but they are all essentially the same. "Don't cheat on me, show me a good time, tell me I'm beautiful." As humans, certain things are generally accepted as romantic and heart-winning. However, as humans, millions of different things can break out hearts beyond repair.

I'd rather write about those things.

My heart is fairly hard to break, but easy enough to bruise beyond forgiveness. I can hold a grudge for eternity and bring it up to defend myself from growing close to someone. I appear to be emotionally distant, but your actions hurt me more than I will ever let you know. How do you break my heart of ice?

I'm not so sure I want to tell you.

But I can't cop out like that. I'd have to type an entirely different blog, and I know that my laziness won't allow that. So I'll dig my own grave on this one.

HOW TO BREAK DANUBE'S HEART

-- Make an Autism joke.
This angers me more than it hurts me, but it still makes me want to cry. It makes me want to cry for all the people in the world that are locked inside their own minds and can't express their brilliance. It pains me that someone is so brilliant, but God felt ironic the day he invented Autism and decided to mix brilliance with a lack of speech and social skills. Maybe I'm sensitive because my brother is afflicted, but still. Autism isn't funny, and if you joke about it, you'll never be able to emotionally connect with me on anything more than a superficial level.

--Confirm my fears.
I fear a lot of things. I fear that I'm not good enough. I fear that I'm hideously ugly. I fear that my boyfriend doesn't find me sexy. I fear that I won't be the only woman he desires for the rest of our lives. I fear that those I love will die before I've learned to cope with death. I fear what comes out of the dark. I fear that I will never make it through college and I will disappoint everyone. I fear that I am too arrogant.

Plain and simply, I'm paranoid to the core.

If you want to break my heart and change the way I look at the world, confirm one of my many fears. Convince me that I'm not good enough. Tell me that I'll lose everyone I love. Remind me that people never love me for long. I will never, never heal.

--Point out how skinny someone is.
I have weight issues. I've had weight issues since I can remember. I literally just became anorexic over time. I never thought, "I should stop eating because I'm fat." I really just stopped eating. Obviously, I was a skeleton for over half of my life. Because I wasn't consciously starving myself or trying to lose weight, I thought I looked normal. Now that I am actually around a normal weight, but still relatively thin, I can't help but think that I need to be thinner. I know in the back of my mind that I am not anywhere near fat. I'm not lumpy, and my body barely jiggles anywhere. But when I look at myself, all I can see is excess. My body isn't as firm as others', it seems. I know this doesn't make me fat, but my brain still wants to tell me I am. I will never be skinny enough, but I know better than to strive to be thinner.

Because of this, I am literally terrified of knowing that someone is thinner than I am. If a person points out to me, "Wow, that girl is REALLY thin," but makes no issue of my weight, I want to go throw up. I want to throw up until my body flips inside out and I die. Never discuss a thin person's weight with me. I will never forgive you for inadvertently throwing my own poor self-image in my face, even though it isn't your fault.

--Remind me of the world's pain.
I want to save everyone. I wish I could save everyone. But I can't. Knowing this is one of the biggest heart breakers ever. I want to end pain; I want to cure everything; I want to completely erase the tears shed in the world, but I can't. I can't save you, and I can't stand it.

--Commit suicide.
My boyfriend's ex-girlfriend killed herself several years ago. I never knew her. Still, she haunts me. I miss her, and I don't even know her. He broke my heart when he told me the story of her death, and she broke my heart by dying and breaking his heart. When I sit in his bedroom, I think of her being there, and I cry. I don't do the typical girl thing and hate her because she's his ex. I'd give him up if it'd mean that he'd never have to go through the pain of losing her, and she'd never having to go through the pain of wanting to die. I don't even know what she looks like, and yet she haunts every step I take.

I cannot handle death. I could walk into a funeral of someone I don't know and cry harder than anyone else there. I have lost relatives that I barely knew, and it nearly killed me. I really cannot handle death. If a person commits suicide, I will not hate them; I will never speak against them. I will only miss them, and never forgive them for my broken heart.

Dear pants companies, stop trying to make me look like white trash!

I'll say this: I love jeans. I love jeans more than any other article of clothing. If I could have one million pairs of jeans, I would do it. And I'd wear multiple pairs at the same time, just so I could get use out of all of them. I'd change my pants 75 times each day just to make sure that all of my jeans were treated fairly.

But I digress.

Today, Frankenberry and I went shopping. I decided to stop in TJ Maxx just for the heck of it. While he was off looking at whatever his inner nerd drew him towards, I decided to look at clearanced clothing. I was browsing through the jeans for no more than thirty seconds when I started to get reeeeeaaaally annoyed.

"Those have artificial tears in them."
Next.
"Those are ripped all over the legs."
Next.
"Those are bleach stained AND have tears galore."
Next.
"Wow. This pair actually says, 'We tear 'em up so you can wear 'em out.'"


...
Are you kidding me?

Now, it's been fashionable for many years to wear torn jeans. I get it--that's the style. But why oh why can a department store fail to carry at least one pair of size three jeans that don't have rips and frays all over them? What is so hard about making pants and resisting the urge to slash them to pieces before shipping them to the store? I'm sorry, pants makers, that I don't want to look like a bum. I'm sorry that I don't want a draft on my legs because I live in Ohio and it fucking snows here. I'm sorry that your pants can't even be considered pants because more of my flesh is showing than there is jean material.

For once in our lives, can we please have a fashion trend that isn't completely asinine? I mean, if California girl wants to look like a falling-apart hobo who can't afford pants that didn't come from the dumpster, so be it. She can go fight a homeless person for his pants. I, however, would like to be able to wear pants that are actually one whole piece of fabric.

Thank you, clothing designers, for allowing us to be 'fashionable' by wearing less and less clothing each year.

It's burning.

I set fire to my Xanga today. No need for a site that makes me feel like writing a blog is a chore. Blogger comes highly recommended by the only person whose opinion I actually trust, so VIOLA. Here I aaaaaaaam!

I may or may not randomly link you to posts from my Xanga if I don't feel like rewriting them here. I had some guuuuud posts there, if I do say so me'self. I'm rather lazy. I actually have a slave whom I dictate all of my blogs and messages to. I don't feed him much; he lives off of the crumbs I have dropped into my laptop's keyboard over the years. I actually found a noodle in there once....

Aaaanyhoozles.... Welcome to Danube's mind. If you've managed to make it this far, sorry. If you plan on staying around, you may want to invest in a haz-mat suit. My life is a liiiiittle messy.