I spent a few hours on the site, jazzing things up for now, and asking on forums what I can do to make it better. I really want to make the site “prettier” if I can.
My mother is going to be coming home, so the hospital says, but they said that it’s going to be a long time to rehabilitate her. I’m happy that it’s even a possibility!!
Today was the last day of school for Chloe, and guess what? She didn’t bring home a yearbook or her class pictures. I paid over $150 for two yearbooks and over thirty pictures of her and her class. I’ve already filed a complaint with Josten’s, but I’m not sure how well it will do with the three-day weekend coming up and people just busting to get out of their offices and get to their vacations for the summer. I wish I could relax and have a good start to summer, but the whole idea of losing $150 is really unsettling with me. I emailed the school and they said she wasn’t there on picture day. I know that’s not right because we got a receipt from the photographer.
Working on the site reminded me how bad my back truly is. Cancer eating through a spine is a real doozie. Don’t let it happen to you! Just sitting here for an hour really hurts. So editing the pages, tearing my hair out, crying to Josh via webcam, and all that other shit was truly painful. I hope that if you’re passing this site you at least leave me a comment telling me how awesome I did on the site! Or leave me some constructive criticism! I’d appreciate either/or.
I never got that sex I’ve been craving. I’m sure you wanted to know.
Have a good night!
I’ve been having some weird cravings and thoughts lately. I want to give oral to Dennis, but I don’t know how to tell him this. I want us to cuddle and snuggle, but again, I’m not sure how to go about asking for this. I’m sure if I just came out and said something, we could play around, but I don’t know. Something is holding me back. I kind of like this feeling. *all smiles*
Some times I just want to send the kids to the movies with my father in law or mother in law and just have us to ourselves. Or perhaps just run away to the ocean and collapse into each other’s arms in the warm sand with the waves crashing above us.
But I can’t do that. I can’t abandon Zinnia yet, and I have to get Chloe’s school to give me her information about where her school pictures and yearbook went to, James is sick with an ear infection that goes down his throat and Ashe wants attention, dammit! I just can’t keep up with them these days, and I know that I deserve a vacation, but I just can’t do that right now. I’m lucky to go out tonight and see the stars. I’m lucky to sneak a kiss every so often.
After the rain is gone tonight, we’re supposed to have a starry night, and I want to sit outside and wax poetic under the stars with Dennis, whilst deep in love.
Occupational Happenings
Again, still knocked up.
I’m starting to sound like a broken record, aren’t I?
I’m beginning to feel guilty of asking for so much time off from work, when the kid seems to be a permanent attachment to my insides. I read Carl’s FB post and he’s having a hard time grading papers, doing lectures and making PowerPoints for upcoming lectures, all while writing the third exam. I love his lines “I’d fucking fail this goddamned exam, if I had to take it! That’s how little I know this psychobabble I’m preaching to sleeping pharm students every morning and afternoon!” I think there was a GIF of my work ID photo burning as the icon. But, Carl, you wanted to be a full time professor! That’s what you told my boss! You even suggested that you be promoted just because you couldn’t get pregnant, in your own words, you were unpregnantable, a word that doesn’t exist, by the way, and therefore you were more reliable, responsible and respectable than I. Little did you know that I was over sixty percent of the meat in the exams, PowerPoints, Lecture notes, grades, and even the handouts and the agenda. I was that valuable.
Still, his brother is my dream man, so I’m going to forgive him this once, pretend that I was deaf at that staff meeting, and offer to come in and grade some papers or just go through the online grade book and assign everyone an F because that’s what they deserve if Carl is telling the truth and people are sleeping through his lectures. I say “if” because I know Carl lied about being more responsible than I (he’s behind in everything and it’s almost two weeks out of Spring Break!), he’s certainly not more respectable, naming names on his Facebook, friending students (my personal NO) and then linking to their profiles when he goes on a profanity-ridden fit when he’s frustrated, and forget reliable. Maybe Carl is pregnant? That’s got to be what’s wrong with him. He’s demanding help from other Assistant Professors tonight, and when they decline because they don’t want to get behind in their own work, he calls them irresponsible and lazy! Oh Carl, you are so not getting promoted in August.
So, since I’m legally going to be pregnant until August, and Mark told me to get rid of the brain tumor while I was off for four months, I feel that I should be doing something productive. Something. Anything. I even made Josh a PlayList for March because I just want something to keep my fingers busy, I’m sick of this …disease… that I caught from unsanitary Carl at the staff meeting a few weeks ago, and I need to occupy my mind. I need something to do. Something that makes me feel accomplished. Something that I can look back on and say, “I did so much while I was waiting for that kid to be born!” that I’m willing to sit down at my computer and write.
So I’m going to work on this site.
By “working on this site,” I’m going to start by changing my handle to “Acid Queen” but that’s not an LSD reference. Not for me anyway, and I’m not secretly Tina Turner nor have I fucked Roger Daltrey or any other member of the Who. I like the name, and I once drank a flask of hydrochloric acid in high school chemistry, I lived, cancer-ridden but alive, and still here to talk about it today.
Being the Acid Queen is one of what I consider one of my stories.
By stories I mean interesting things that have only happened to me.
Back in the day, before the perils of being forced to upgrade to WordPress because Josh is a cunt and makes me do uncomfortable things, I had pages on here of my stories. They were 100% true fascinating things that had happened to me in my twenty-eight years on Earth. I’m going to be thirty-three, the Jesus age, this year, so I think I should have an accomplished and full website like I had once before. Oh yes, this site, due to my own negligence, has become just a shell of what it was just a mere five years ago. When I first had my own .com and was in college and thus had a lot of time on the computer to write, I frequently wrote about things that made me interesting. I edited my own HTML (remember that? do you even know what that is???), made layouts on the college’s Dreamweaver, uploaded with Blogger.com and an FTP client. I had to link to all my own pages with my own editing. Nothing was automatic like it is with WordPress. You kiddies don’t know! Blogging and site maintenance was once something that required time, skill and patience. Now anyone with a fucking keyboard can be a site master and appear to be good at it.
What will my stories contain? That’s the wonderment of you’ve got to keep coming back here and checking things! I can give you a taste, though, for example, did you know that I had a lover who died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York? That I’ve fucked someone super-famous (it’s not Roger Daltrey, I promise!)? Actually two someones, but sex no longer counts once you marry the one you’re fucking. That there is a famous love song out there that is about me? That for the first fifteen years of our relationship I couldn’t tell my husband from his brother and his brother regularly got sex from me because of it? Okay, that last one is just me being a horny bimbo, but, hey, it’s interesting, right? I could make something of it some day! The best of all of this is I am considering naming names. Famous names. That are on Wikipedia and you’ve probably not only heard of, but that you’ve got songs by on your computer or your CD shelf.
Now that you know all that, aren’t you just itching for me to dish, dish, dish?
Of course you are! But I’m doing this as a side pregnancy project and only through August, though I can probably whip up to thirty pages per month, if I’m really dedicated to it.
Oh, and I promise not to write about drug experiences, with the exception of the prescription drug I was given that caused amnesia. That was a pretty fun experience. I could do shit and not have to feel guilty about it the morning after. I pissed off a pretty good amount of people while I was on that drug. Oh well. The true ones stayed.
Have a good night everyone. Don’t stay up too late!
According to my health chart, my (asshole!) doctor, and other resources, I have exactly one more week of pregnancy left. The idea of a vaginal birth scares me to death, especially since I’ve read up in medical texts that the vagina is least likely to go back to its original, pre-birth size afterwards. I feel as though that particular change won’t settle easy. I know, I know, it’s really shallow for a man to leave his wife because her pussy’s too big, and while I’ll be the first to admit that Dennis is large, I have a bad feeling about the whole post-birth situation. That and I know it’s going to hurt like hell. Stretching to the point of tearing, stitches in the vagina. Not really something I want to go through.
It gets a little crazier than that, though.
We want to do it again. Six kids. That’s our goal. Six. Years ago, you couldn’t budge me to do one, never mind six. But we talked it over, and we want to have one more, and then stop completely. Oh goodie. I get to do this all over again!
Chloe is having a fit because she doesn’t want a little sister. She wants to be the only girl. Maybe she will get her wish? 
My doctor did lay down some harsh words to me the other day: “I hope you’re not expecting this child to live much longer after birth.” He has this crazy prediction that Little One is going to die within minutes of birth. He even gave me abortion pilled last Monday, and told me to be sure and have taken them by Thursday, because he was going to check. What kind of idiot makes that big of a medical malpractice mistake? If Little One were born on Thursday, they could have lived. They are capable of living outside the womb, so abortion at this point would be murder. But my doctor actually gave me a hard time over the lack of narcotics, opioids and the abortion pills, at Thursday’s appointment.
This week is Spring Break for the University. I am going to use much of the spring break to catch up on my writing. My goal is to have Book #20 finished before Little One is born. I want Book #21 to be about Little One’s birth, bringing them home, naming, and the first couple of months recorded. I’m sup-titling it “A Baby Story.” Here’s hoping that Little One’s story is a happy and joyous. 
My doctor insists that Little One isn’t going to live long after birth, but I hope he’s wrong. I have grown attached to Little One since they are showing reactions to the environment. When people yell or scream, Little One jumps away. When people laugh or sing, Little One tends to be joyous. Little One responds to her father’s voice, my voice, our touch, and has actually shown sleep patterns that are like our own. Little One recognises her father singing, her mother humming, and her older sister complaining about homework. Little One may not be born yet, but they are a full part of the family now.
My doctor never told me that one of his concerns would be the radiation, narcotics and opioids that Little One was exposed to, being a concern for the baby. No, his “worries” were because I was pregnant, I couldn’t, legally, be subjected to his surgery. I really don’t care these days, except I would like to have a constant physician in my life.
I was told that we might go somewhere for spring break, but I’m not sure about that, now. I’m not officially going back to work until the end of August. Here’s hoping that I don’t get lazy and want to stay away forever. 
)
Oh, and I joined this site. Don’t know what the craze is, but add me and all that good shit. D
Thirteen years ago, I was contemplating sex with a stranger, at the risk of being labeled a slut. Today I am contemplating screwing the lead guitarist of a band that my father bought every album of, just because I will be covering the band’s concert here this spring. Open relationships mean one thing: Trust is more important than monogamy, and “hunk o’ burning love” is taken literally. The problem arose when Dennis did not want me sleeping with any man except himself, something that wasn’t fair, as he confided in me that he had had several “encounters” on the road, then “clarified” that they had all been between bandmates. What? He’s screwing other men? It’s not surprising to me, but it really threw our therapist back a few inches.
But if I had sex with another woman and he could watch, that was fine.
Isn’t it always?
I have been in conversation with the guitarist that I am planning on conquering this spring, and he’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know what I’m planning, yet, and a good groupie doesn’t divulge what they are planning until the moment happens, but he offered to buy me coffee and talk about the tour. How nice. I needed a shot of insulin after that conversation.
Hey, my manager says I have to be nice to the bands that I interview! It’s out of my hands! If we give them bad publicity, they may shit on our publications, and we’ll lose readers. Normally. Knowing today’s youth, if a band said “[This] magazine sucks!” millions of people may jump out and buy it or order subscriptions. Unfortunately, the managers don’t think like that, and if we get bad publicity from a band, the reporter who caused that bad publicity is fired. Permanently. So, it’s my motto to be a groupie in disguise of a reporter! Besides, I’ve been a groupe since I was fifteen, and I’m still waiting for that one “bad thing” to happen to me to spoil it all.
Dennis has been trying to get me to rethink many things on my agenda. Things such as sleeping with this guy, packing up and leaving the family, and other “mistakes that I am going to regret” in the future. I replied that he sounded like a middle school teacher, preaching about “the future” all the time. I’m at that point in my life where I don’t care about the future anymore. I just want to make it through the present and learn to let go of the past. If that means that I am a whore or a slut, or a “druggie whore” as one of my lovely blog visitors has referred to me as (I can see those referrer logs, dumb ass!), then so be it. It’s amazing that people really care that much about what I think of them that they are willing to insult me over an invisible media. There’s the discussion of what this may be “setting for Chloe.” I can honestly say that my own mother’s promiscuity had no effect on how I grew up, other than I wish she had not physically and emotionally abused me in the process. Other than that, it’s her body, her pussy, her choices. I’m not married to her just as Chloe is not married to me. If Chloe grows up and has sex with Marilyn Manson, good for her! I hope she at least gets his autograph out of it all!
My biggest concern is that I don’t know if I can go through with it. I’ve been having that problem for a long time now. Call it a conscience, call it chickening out. I don’t know what to make of it. Ideas?
Before any rumors start to fly, why yes, I did some dumb shit and hurt myself this week:
Did anyone else feel that? The world stopped turning! It’s all over! But it seems there’s internet access in Hell, and MacBook Pros, so it’s not all that bad. Plus instead of drinking from the polluted Styx River, I get an IV drip again. But Paradise wasn’t always so. I sleep more. More so than I should be. I am taken, every day, to that CT room, injected with something that makes me sit still, laying on that cold, sticky table, as I’m injected out and about a ring that I know I’m going to get stuck in. Tears pool out of the corners of my eyes, dripping onto a table where they will dry yellow. Yellow? I’m not crying piss, I promise.
My chosen one has chosen to go back to heavily drinking. Triggered, I requested a new, private room, not to be listed. Change my name if you have to, because when he starts drinking as much as he is, two full bottles of whiskey per sitting, he becomes violent, and having an IV tube so close to me, I’m a sitting duck. I might as well have my head in a noose and be standing on a three-legged chair.
The night nurse is gorgeous. I’ve been lusting for him since I met him on Monday evening after I was transferred to this specialty hospital. I’m the youngest on the Cardiac floor, and one of two patients of my night nurse. I have limited resources, just what I can pop on my phone. Someone sent me a shit load of music videos from the ’80s. I’m not too ungrateful, but I have to wonder why someone would send me Elton John videos along side hair band metal? Apple is probably scratching their heads over this. They must think that I’m some kind of a pervert. Ok, well, I am, but they don’t need to know that!
Last night I had my first shower in ever-so-long. Nurse Sexy said we were going to get in the shower together. I was a little disappointed that all that happened, somewhat, was that he helped me scrub down. I had my first six orgasms in that shower. *grins* He complimented my backside, then quickly corrected himself in saying he was talking about my tattoo. Sure you were, sure. I told him that I was dizzy from the temperature and pressure changes in the shower, so he told me to hold his hand. I grabbed a hold of something else, and he made it a point to tell me that wasn’t his hand, but he didn’t tell me to stop. Best single sided sex of my life.
I’ve been put on injectable insulin. We all knew it was going to happen sooner or later. Better now than never, huh? I don’t inject over four units at a time because my blood levels aren’t that high. Of course I’ve been chowing down on ice cream and Tootsie Pops and Life Savers since getting the news. No more Metformin for a while, we’re going to go straight to the insulin overdoses. Nurse Sexy came in and told me he had something for me to suck on, but not to suck on it too hard because the juice might come out too soon. He then gave me some kind of a medical lollipop, the outer part was to deaden my taste buds for the vile liquid center. And yes, my heart rate sky rocketed when he told me he had something for me to suck on that was going to explode in my mouth.
One thing that doesn’t help is that I have been put in isolation for so long that I feel worse being here. I question why I was admitted, but then I get a new medicine to try out, and my mind goes back to blank.
I’m hoping to get out before Christmas. Hoping. I know that hoping and looking at the actual statistical facts on hand are two different things, but I can dream.
We got a tiny snow storm while I slept last night. Nurse Sexy must have come directly to my room to check on me during the start of his shift; he had whole snowflakes in his hair. I asked how much longer I was going to be here. I actually want to be out in this snowy, wintery mix, amongst the dumbasses trying to drive on it, than be here, tethered to machines, my only escape is an iPhone with shit reception. I have a stack of forty or so unopened Christmas cards from people who just realised that I am not where I’m supposed to be. I want to go outside and play in the snow. Make a snowman and get some food colouring and really go to town.
While I want to leave the hospital, I fear where I am going to end up. Going home seems to be the right idea, but I don’t think I can go back there. I can’t live with a violent alcoholic, who refuses to get help. I can’t expose myself, my children, and the bun in the oven, to violence. At the same time, Chloe is bonded to her father. She loves him dearly, and after studying psychology for years, I know what may happen if I take him away from her. I have not asked why he started drinking again. Eight years sober, and now this. He came in to see me drunk. He said things, made remarks. I asked if Trevor was there, and he said no. When I expressed this to a mutual friend, they suggested that Trevor wouldn’t be honest, if he were in control, because he dislikes me. Trevor wants to sleep around, get high and wired, drive drunk, take swings at cops, then runs away, leaving Dennis holding the ball, getting in trouble. I’m not sure if I believe the Trevor Did It story anymore. There was a time when it made perfect sense, but now it just seems too convenient to be true. Dennis and Trevor have both hurt me. Trevor has never told me that he hates me, but Dennis has relayed to me that Trevor wishes I’d die, and that he never agreed to my marriage to Dennis. Dennis tells me that Trevor was the only one in the system who disliked me and did not wish to see me on a regular basis.
I’m rambling now. I should be trying to sleep, begging Nurse Sexy for another shower or at the very least some good pain medications.
And if the world ended, no one told me. So I’m still here, and apparently, so are you, so there.
Don’t forget to like my page here! You know you wanna, and that you can’t help yourself…
The Hardest Part
Sleep. Something that I feel I haven’t gotten enough these days. I want to sleep all day, all night, no matter how much caffeine I guzzle down, I seem to not gain energy, but discoloured teeth. Blah.
I would chalk this up to working extra hours, though I’m not. My hours haven’t changed, and I have double vision. Dennis says it’s because I’m glued to my phone texting and playing games twenty hours out of the day. Ha ha. Very funny. I suppose that is causing my head and neck pain as well?
I haven’t gotten my blood test results back yet, and they’re late in getting them back to me. Usually that is not good news.
At home I am on strike. If Dennis and his dad want their laundry washed, the rooms vacuumed, or home-cooked meals, they can do it themselves. I’m too tired to get anything done, even raking a brush across my head spikes wears my arms out. I felt like I had just done forty minutes on the rings, not detangled one inch spikes.
As usual, I’m behind in my paperwork. I sat trying to finish yesterday’s paperwork, and my loving mother said she was going to clean the shelves in my bedroom off. Turns out that she had given my entire artisan make up collection to some one she works at at her white-trash job, and they jumped at the chance to get high-dollar cosmetics. *sigh* Into the locked trunk with them! She already gave away my stereo because I didn’t use it enough. I have to remind her on almost a daily basis that I am not ten years old anymore. If I have a slightly cluttered bedroom, it’s not up to her, it’s none of her business.
My doctor was a little bit pleased with my weight loss: 16 lbs since May. He wants me in the 110′s by November. My weight was 151 lbs when I got weighed the last time. Again, I don’t think someone who is 6′ 1″ needs to weigh so little. He said if my “frame” was larger, he’d recommend it. “Frame?” What the hell’s that? And, as I predicted, he said my “weight” was the cause of my neck pain. But I was given some more groovy muscle relaxers, and had some fun having hallucinations at night after taking them. Well, it was fun until I realised what I was doing, and then I just quietly and quickly hurried back to my bedroom and got in bed. I sometimes never remember what I am doing in that weird state of mind. Not until people inform me that I made an idiot of myself hours before.
I wanted sex tonight. I begged Dennis to send his friends home, and begged my father-in-law to watch the boys and Chloe for about an hour. When Dennis finally got around to come see what I wanted, my mother was in our bathroom, why she can’t use the kids’ bathroom is beyond me, and asking me if I had saw parts of a TV show that we watched together less than fifteen minutes ago. Needless to say, we didn’t get it on. Too bad, too, I was in an oral mood. Maybe tomorrow night.
★
