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!
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:
Megan Lewis, CloudzAngel, is back again! At least this time she didn’t spend money buying a domain, but she made the mistake of hiring the same fake references as the other fifty cam whores she’s been over the years.
Anyone with a brain would see this website is a scam. For one, she’s got a phone number listed, but it’s not a Tulsa number. All numbers that are legitimately Tulsa based are 918 numbers. The 206 number traces to Enumclaw, Washington. The “proof” that her photos are real is a simple watermark on the upper righthand corner. I could do the same thing with any photo of any celebrity on the web. Doesn’t mean that they endorse comatised.com, does it? At one point she says that her home town is Dallas, TX, and in other places on the page she claims to live exclusively in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This model is supposedly a “super-model thin,” yet asks for “plus sized” panty hose on her Amazon WishList. The site is supposed to be over eight years old, yet the layout is modern and there’s no evidence of it in the WayBackMachine. Whoever she stole from this time, she was able to get videos and over 100 pictures of them.
I know Megan trolls this site, and I know she trolls my gallery and it’s just a matter of time before she makes a fake site in my name or Dennis’ name with pictures stolen from our various profiles on the web. I’m actually surprised that she hasn’t done so already, except that I know where she works downtown and it’s just a matter of me sending them a login to this site and showing them the threatening and abusive comments she left on here through their internet connection.
It’s just a matter of time before Megan deletes the site, so here are some screen caps. They’re from my phone and the battery was dying, but I think I captured her sleaze and deception fairly well. To the people who have contacted me about her, you’re welcome to come back at any time!
My best friend, James, has always told me that if things got bad with my husband, he was just a phone call away, and we could live happily ever after, as soon as I left my problems in the dust. Today, I made that phone call. Unfortunately, James did not answer his phone, and by the time that he called me back, I was too chickenshit to go along with Plan B, that I made up some shit about my computer cord that I needed and that I wanted an expert opinion. In reality, I was begging for someone to relieve me from the darkness that was beginning to surround me, and tell me that this was not my fault. Nice thinking on my part, huh?
I didn’t bother to talk about what went wrong with our little Memorial Day vacation, just that I was not going on any more business trips with my husband, ever. I even threw in that he could sleep with whoever he wanted, and I was going to pretend everything was fine, all the while singing Silver Threads and Golden Needles. He remarked about S. Well, yes, something happened. But I made sure that when he’s fucking someone else, it’s me that he’s thinking about. Dennis informed me that I was spending “entirely too much” of the family funds on tinted moisturisers and lip stains, when I really knew that he wanted to hit below the belt. I gave him that option. I told him that I didn’t care if he made the remark, just be honest about it, like I was honest with him about my complaints.
He never did tell me what was on his mind. I never fully admitted to fucking S.
As some kind of weird punishment, I have not had my patches refilled, so I am here, suffering, and can only sit for a few minutes at a time. I cannot lay still in my bed because then I feel like I am jumping out of my skin. I cannot walk about, the only thing that calms my skin-jumping-feeling, because I hurt. Dennis tells me that he will fill my patches “when he can” or when he gets around to it. Sorry if I’m interfering with his watching A&E, but I’m suffering here!
On the fourth day of hearing that nonsense, I called James. Least the kids and I be living in Manhattan, with me doped up on Fentanyl, than to be living how we were. After six rings, I gave up and ended the connection. I couldn’t really see myself living in James’ apartment with his mother and three kids of his own. We’d be a modern day Brady Bunch, each partner bringing in their own three kids to make a huge family of six. Seven when counting his mother. I’ve always wondered what the hell Mrs. Brady did while Alice cleaned her house, anyway. She didn’t have a house to clean or a job to go to every day, so what in the world did she do? Hang around waiting to solve all her kids’ problems? These days, I’d go for having a full time house keeper. 
I would love to have nothing to do but twiddle with this site, and annoy Jess’ old friends and haunts, all day long.
I know there’s a reason why I didn’t get through to James. I know me living in Manhattan is just not to be. I know that some day Dennis is going to miss me when I’m gone, but I can’t get him to open his eyes to that now. Now he’s barely agreed to getting my medicine refilled so that I can live without suffering. I was grateful for the extra patch I found down behind the desk, but I don’t know how much longer I was going to be able to hang on. Even right now, after this short post, my arms are cramped, my back is aching, and I feel as though I have been bench-pressing a thousand pounds.
Communication is something we need help with, that I know for sure. I know more than anything that my heart is doomed. This relationship is pretty much over, it was doomed before it ever took off. I had to battle Dennis’ fan girls, floozies, and fat women he’d made friends with on the web, before he would pay proper attention to me. It wasn’t right, and I expressed that to him. But my words were ignored. There was nothing wrong with having these women and girls call us at all hours of the day and night, and our first real fight happened when I got his cell phone number changed and he lost the number forever. That really sent him over the edge.
I’ve never used the word “fear” to describe my life, because I don’t really fear Dennis. I fear myself. I am my own worst enemy, and I have known this for many years. I just wish that I didn’t have to rely on Dennis so much. Or any man, really. I want to be free, where the only person that I have to please is myself, and the only person I have to look out for is myself, and finally, the only person that I have to rely on would be myself. I knew all these things when I got married, and being a selfish person, I never said anything at the time. I never said anything at the family therapy sessions. I never said anything to anyone, just kept it as a dirty little secret in the back of my mind, next to that night I spent with S, pretending that no one would notice, and if they did notice, they wouldn’t care. Well, now I care. Now I have to suffer with my own decisions. Would life with James be oh-so-better? Not a chance! He’s just another man, right? I tend to not get along with men for very long. That’s why my marriage has shocked the shit out of me. It’s so unlike me to be in a relationship with a man for so long.
Nighty-night people. Oh, and it’s almost my birthday, so buy me something, huh?
Megan Lewis, AKA CloudzAngel and a whole scope of fraudulent cam whore sites, has discovered my little writings here, and boy is she mad!
She left me a sweet comment. Every other name was “you fat fucking slut” and how she hopes she sees my “fat assed face” again, she is going to “beat the fuck outa” me. Tsk, tsk, why so violent, Miss Christian? Is that how Christ would act? You started this. You set up fraudulent websites and pissed off the entire internet. No one has anything good to say about you because of that. Then you targeted me personally when you made fuck-profiles to send to my husband and try to have an affair with him. Joke’s on you, huh? Oh, and she totally had sex with my man. Totally. He just might bring me AIDS if I’m not careful and don’t delete my posts about her. My kids will get it and die too. Did she just admit to be giving random men AIDS to bring home to their wives? How are the kids going to get AIDS? Just cuz lil ole MegNUTTERS is the product of incest and dating a man old enough to be her great-grandpappy doesn’t mean that everyone living in this state is doing the same thing.
By her comment, I can totally tell that she is so much more mature than me. So much more that her entire site was shut down for abuse, and making threats. And it’s a true sign of maturity to threaten to beat up another person, sleep with their husband and infect their whole family with AIDS (she must be the only person immune to carry AIDS…Because she commented that she had done it before….LOTS of TIMES), and then totally fuck them all up. Her words, not mine. But she’s very mature for 25. And she’s totally a poster child for God’s love. Sounds more like the typical Bible Thumping Back Woods Freaks that we’re surrounded by here. You know, the place where the men aren’t afraid to shoot women and make sure you know it well.
There’s her IP. Ban her if you must. Or congratulate her. Ole Freddie was put out to the gallows before horny desperate Megan came along. Hey, she must be good for something, right?
Like this site on Facebook. You know you wanna! Join the Feed. Again, you know you wanna!
End of an Era
It’s no secret. I take meds. I take them in the morning, I take them at night. I take them for diabetes, I take them for psychosis. I have taken them for the past four years of my life, with little to no change in the outcome of my mind, starting with the death of my best friend Christopher (oddly enough, I dreamed of him last night). My life still sucks, I still sense things I am not supposed to, whether I am gulping down drugs or dry-docked for the night. My nights and days are the same whether I am on my meds or not, and it has come time where meds are starting to become a chore for me. I feel no therapeutic effects from the medications anymore. To me that’s a signal to either stop the meds cold turkey or find some that do agree with me.
What I am specifically referring to are the psychotropic drugs that I have been on for the past six months or so. They were supposed to make my life better, but I still see it as major suckage, with senses on overload, and my primary care physician is no longer comfortable with prescribing psychotropic drugs for me and wants a psychiatrist to exclusively prescribe them, so I am stopping the meds with the honor of my primary care physician in agreement only because it’s determined that I can no longer afford to see a psychiatrist. Either financially or emotionally. So I no longer need the psychotropic drugs.
See how pharmaceuticals work in this day and age?
I didn’t know a cure was that close!
This also cures my sleeping disorder, but only through my primary care physician. I can’t afford to see a psychiatrist on a regular basis, that’s $40 per session. But Byron, the neighbourhood drug dealer, doesn’t charge for sessions, just a 10% mark up from pharmacy prices, and a bigger guarantee that I will fall asleep or he’ll be back with something stronger the next night! Hey, I wonder if he has something to cure my nightmares while he’s at it?! Probably! There’s no end to what I can get cured when I am in total, one-hundred-percent of the drugs that are dispensed to me from Byron. Now, the only difference between Byron and my pharmacy? They have a license to make the psychotropic drugs I need legal to be sold to me. They care about me as much as Byron does; MONEY! and REFERRAL! Oh, and don’t report them for the mouse carcass in the middle shelf of medication, and we’re sitting pretty. Yes, everyone I know is doing something against the rules and laws. No, I have never turned one in, yet.
What has come to annoy me the most is that I had no warning that I was going to have to get the psychiatrist to renew and start refilling these prescriptions, that, for the past four years, my primary care physician has filled, and was the original prescriber, without issue, for four years. Then all of a sudden, the rug is pulled out from under me. This caused much bitchage from my mother, whose phone I had to use because my better half is using our land line for god-knows-what, and I am out of minutes on my cell phone. Unless doc would take calls at 5pm, I can’t communicate with him through the cell phone, and seeing that he won’t even honor and renew prescriptions that he has been the primary writer of for the past four years, until my appointment on May 10th (a week away), then I don’t see him bending a finger to try and resolve this anytime soon.
No, that is not a typo.
Doc could have refilled my prescriptions with one more refill, that would have lasted me through this up coming visit, and then dropped the bomb on me. But since returning hom from Las Vegas and since I was starting on the road to recovery, and we can’t have that, I am in the process of changing psychiatrists, one to suit the needs of my higher up, and I did not have the knowledge to ask on my final shrink visit April 24th. No warning. No letter. No nothing stating that doc was too much of a pussy insecure to finish my prescriptions on his own. It doesn’t come as a shock to me, just as an annoyance, as I have been getting my pain medications from a pain specialist/weight loss asshole doctor for over a year now, because my primary is unable to write narcotics for someone in chronic pain. Yet anything my mother asks from him, he does. No matter what. Bent over backwards with the lube in hand, I might add. This just breeds her asking constant questions of me that I cannot answer, so the normal answer is, “I don’t know.” or “He doesn’t know.” and this ultimately pisses her off.
Don’t tell me seeing a therapist is going to be another one of those life-long things that I will forever fear being locked up in a nuthouse for for the rest of my life. I couldn’t live like that.
How Do They Find the Time?
I see my harasser has been back several times an hour here. Good for her. It’s my thoughts that she was one of the fifteen blank profiles that tried to add me on Facebook or Flickr over Easter weekend. I mean, she has no family who want anything to do with her because she is such a nasty ho, so she might as well finish her mission to obtain photos of me. She’s only continued this feud, single-sided, for two years now. Oh wait. When anyone disagrees with her stupid opinions, that’s me under a completely new IP, ISP, dial up, computer, and country or state. Yes, I just go to those extreme lengths to fuck with that invalid reject. *eye roll* How does she live with herself? I mean, seriously. She has been focused on me for going on three years now, all because I caught her in a lie. I guess others are catching her in lies now and she thinks they are me. After all, I was the first to call her out for lying. And it was such a pathetic lie at that! It wasn’t even anything worth lying about!
Artist has decided to try to fuck with me since my Saturday entry. Fine with me. He sent me a PM from the community asking me the following:
“Your husband is a musician? An artist on PlayList? What’s his name, can you tell me?”
He sent a similar email to Josh, who freaked out and called me to waken me from my peaceful sleep about sipping Sprite with Captain Picard. Which led me to the following post on the community:
“It’s been my finding that [Artist] is trying to get my husband’s name or stage name, for reasons that I can only assume would be to fuck around with him when he’s not home. If you get any emails or PMs asking for this information, please do me that last favour and don’t send the information on. Even if you don’t know who I am married to. Let this die.”
I then posted his PM. Josh actually backed me up and posted that if he found out that anyone had sent Artist the information, they were forever banned from PlayList! What gives?!
As for me, I’m still done with that community. Josh re-instated my Mod status, but I am not going back, except for maybe to get my free PlayList, and I’ll just delete the duplicate songs from my own playlists and archives. Screw em.
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