My back hurts this evening. It was so bad that I called my doctor and left him a message and he actually got back to me, suggesting that come tomorrow morning, I come into his office and get back on my anti-cancer routine. I’m not looking forward to getting chemotherapy again, because I have felt so much better this year without it, but I also feel the pain creeping back into my life. I can’t have that. I can’t take the medicine, nor can I take the pain of having to deal with cancer and anti-cancer drugs.
I wish I were strong. I wish I could take all that has been laid out before me with grace and courage, but here I sit trying to find a way to get out of all of this. I went so far as to suggest that we leave state. Go somewhere where they don’t know of my diagnosis. But I can’t run from my body, no matter how hard I try.
My friend James says that he’s coming to see me sometime before May. I don’t know if I want to see any friends after going through a round of chemotherapy.
Pity Party, huh?
There are certainly more people out there that are suffering far more than I am, and they aren’t whining about it in their online journal. I don’t know why I feel that I need to whine about this constantly. It’s not like crying about it can or will change my future. I wish this were a novel and that I could pick up the book and cheat by looking at the back to see how things turn out. Do I get to live well and into my prime, or do I have an early death? Will I get to see what my children grow up to be? Or will they read eulogies to me before they are out of high school?
I shouldn’t be thinking about these things. I should be concentrating on Zinnia’s growth, my Mother’s Day projects, and making up with my mother. My therapist says that in the past seven months I have progressed better than the eleven years I have been in therapy. He says that there are no more pieces that he wants to cover with me, and that by the end of June I will get a certificate that I am well, mentally. I will be staying on the medications, and continue to work on myself in the privacy of my own home. But I no longer need a leader to help me along the way. We came to the conclusion that Roxanna was the reason I couldn’t get well. I considered her one of my bestest friends, and she made me cry every night with her insults and teasing. She knew that she was making me cry, and she never quite stopped.I gave her permission to hurt me and she did. That really broke my heart. The ones that we give our hearts to will never break them, They will never cause us any pain or tears. I felt like I was breaking up with someone whom I had dated. Now, I think that I should move to another state where people won’t know what I have done as an adult.
Some of the people who are mad at me as the people who want to see me naked, and that’s really none of their business, and when I explain that to them, they get a little irate. Let them get irate. Pissed, Pissed off. Angry. I can’t help their emotions.
I do have a new close friend online, Mandy. Perhaps she could take the place of Roxanna as being the friend who doesn’t make me cry from how badly I am to them, make me cry because I have such awesome friends out there who truly care about me. For twice in my life, I have had some “friends” who would see how much I was being helped, and they would turn away because they “couldn’t compare with that,” over the price of an iPod. The gifting wasn’t a contest or a bragging right. God will love you the same if you brought in canned food for the family to eat on for a month or so, or of you brought your stuffed animals you out grew and there for passed them down to children who were sick, dying, injured or they just want something to comfort them. You don’t back out of a donation-a-thon because someone else did better than you.
I remember giving so much to the dying children. “battered” teddy bears where we all sewed up the bears and make cuddly toys for the little boys and girls. There is no drugs allowed and there there is no such thing and a donation that is too small!
Roxanna has no power over me???????????????!!
It was brought to my attention, earlier today, that my loving husband, Dennis, is going to make our wedding anniversary cake from scratch. That wouldn’t be too bad, but by “scratch” he means starting by opening a box of cake mix. Frosting in a can. Waxy letters that never stay on right. So basically what I am going to have is a lopsided (because our oven is tilted), plastic tasting, lump of wax, probably food-coloured to some obscene colour.
This is where I have to draw the line.
For the past three years, Dennis has been promising me a professional cake for our anniversary. Yet, he proceeds to make these disasters that usually end up spilling in the oven, and I have to spend the anniversary on my hands and knees, scrubbing burnt on cake mix out of the oven. The cake pan is usually ruined. The cake falls apart when to try to cut it. Basically, it’s a mess.
It’s not the mess that I mind. It’s the broken promises that he’s been stringing me along the last four years of our marriage with. He can provide designer originals for fans that send him naked pictures, but he can’t pony up just $30 for a decent anniversary cake? Does that seem right to anyone out there?
Then comes the attitude. If I “don’t like it, I can simply forget about the whole thing, and we’ll just focus on Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas.” To which I replied, “I guess you’re going to give out toothbrushes for Halloween, a parakeet for Thanksgiving, and a paper tree for Christmas?!” To me, one shouldn’t make a promise they can’t keep. If he had said last month that he couldn’t do this, and we’d have to be subjected to his Tim-Allan-sque attempt at baking, I would have been disappointed, yes. Pissed off like I am now? Not one bit. To me, it’s as if I don’t mean much to him because he can’t keep a single promise to me about something as simple as a bakery-baked cake. How badly can an ordered cake be fucked up? Not to mention, he’s done it twice in a row before, and it was never fucked up. It seems there is some sort of other agenda there that he doesn’t want me to notice. I’ve tried to rack my brain around why he insists on fucking up the one day out of the year that we have for each other.
I commented on my distaste for this. He replied that maybe our anniversary would be better spent if he went on the road the week of the 21st. He retorted that it would be better if I wasn’t always looking for something to pick apart. My reply? “You’re absolutely right. Maybe this year, instead of dreading a disaster cake, a so-so gift, and watch you spend the better half of the day thanking skanks who don’t know you personally but send you pornographic photographs, I should go out and get a real man, one who is man enough to just want and need me in his life, and you know who’s first on the list? Billy. Second is my other friend who has been here for nearly two weeks. At least either of them would be happy to have me, and would at least, keep their promises.”
On that, I left him alone, in the kitchen.
I only ask for one thing every year, and yet he doesn’t do it. I guess if I want his attention or acknowledgement, I’m going to have to send him naked pictures of me straddling a telephone pole and change my name to “Brandi” and not to forget to put fake kisses over the “i”.
I’ve also asked for an iPad this year. What do you want to bet that I’ll get a fucking Kindle?
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!
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?
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.
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.
Back in July of 2005, I was asked to be a moderator on PlayList. PlayList is just what you think it would be, a place where local and famous musicians can request their MP3s to be collected in a monthly “play list” for subscribers on an iTunes community. It’s run by my friend Josh. After getting my first iPod in October 2004 and submitting numerous playlists, I was asked to be a mod. Fine. The rules of PlayList are that your version of a song can only be added ONCE to PlayList. You can add a live version, but you cannot add two of the same versions. Mostly I submitted my own and my husband’s music, sometimes my nephew’s music.
In January, a fairly famous person submitted several MP3s of his music for the January 2012 PlayList. One song had already been submitted and published in June 2007, but this somehow slipped past the other mods, who were obviously star struck and over stimulated at the thought of the cards and free front row tickets this artist had sent to the mods who listed their mailing addresses. I didn’t get shit, but that’s not why I did what I did.
I went back through the main archives and saw the song was listed twice, the only difference was a few seconds on the songs. I played them both and they were identical studio versions, so I cut the latest song from the January 2012 PlayList. This caused the artist to fall out of the top five artists on PlayList, and I sent a short email to him telling him why I had cut his song and that he needed to check the main archives before submitting another song. Of course this particular artist has to be the best and at the top of everything, even a small community of outcasts PlayLists. He threw a fit, called Josh, and played the gay card. In other words, he told Josh that I cut his song because he’s gay and that I told him this is why I cut the song. Nothing could be further from the truth, but Josh doesn’t log email conversations, so when said artist deleted my message to him, there was no proof I hadn’t said these things.
Here is where Josh and Co. should have known me better. They have known me for over twenty years, long before any of us had internet access. Josh made a post on the message board of our community, and asked what people thought. Of course because said artist had sent out tickets, cards, and gift baskets to most of the mods, they sided in with him: I was jealous and upset because he had not given me anything. Sure. Whatever. Why not? After all, why else would I have this poor guy under the microscope and delete his awesome song that had been okay with everyone else for three months?
Josh re-instated the song in January’s PlayList, removed my moderator status for the weekend, and told me to check with him before I do any other modding on the community. What.The.Fuck. The whole point in making me a mod was so that I could make decisions when the owner wasn’t there! Now I have to “get permission” before I could make any changes? Um, fuck no. I replied to Josh’s thread that he should have believed me, even if God himself got on that message board and told a lie about me; I was his friend, not the artist. The artist didn’t even reply or look at the message board post, which is weird since he’s made more posts in the communities than anyone else on the entire site, that I have witnessed so far.
So I resigned as a Mod.
I thanked Josh for letting me be a mod, because I did not have to pay to get an awesome music list every month, and I was replacing several of my songs that I lost when my mother sold my CD collection, but it wasn’t worth it to be belittled, lied about, and have everyone picking sides. I also told him if he wanted to boot me from his blog circle, I’d “understand”. You know, because one would have to kick me out of everything because of a conflict in one community. I’ve been through that countless times on Livejournal.
So far he hasn’t replied to me, and I don’t expect him to until after the weekend. Passover, Easter and some kind of fasting that he has to do. It’s a religious thing, so I won’t question it.
For anyone interested, here are the Easter photos so far this year.