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.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
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.
Do yourself a favor--life the life you dream of, close that gap, and live innocent of treason.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
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.
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.
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