That Went Over Well

*Groans*

The domain that I purchased for this site is expiring in a week. A fucking week. I never used it. Ever. What a resourceful person I have become. My internet existence is next to nothing, all I do is constantly pump life into comatised, which I am certain that I probably won't even have a year from now, because it is expiring next month.

Why do I do this? Why do I start things and never follow through with them? Do you know how many commercial fonts I have on my computer that I have never used because I have started graphics and never finished them? Or just never followed through with them to begin with.

If anyone has any resources or encouragement for me, feel free to leave it. Lord knows, I need it.

*Groans*

The domain that I purchased for this site is expiring in a week. A fucking week. I never used it. Ever. What a resourceful person I have become. My internet existence is next to nothing, all I do is constantly pump life into comatised, which I am certain that I probably won't even have a year from now, because it is expiring next month.

Why do I do this? Why do I start things and never follow through with them? Do you know how many commercial fonts I have on my computer that I have never used because I have started graphics and never finished them? Or just never followed through with them to begin with.

If anyone has any resources or encouragement for me, feel free to leave it. Lord knows, I need it.

Addiction and Motherhood

I'm working on my 21st mini novel, and the subject throughout it is motherhood and addictions. Addiction from prescription pain pills, heroine, cocaine, and alcohol.

Just a few days before Zinnia was born, I bought a bottle of red wine and had finished the bottle before I had gotten home. I went back and bought three more bottles. Only 1/2 a bottle survived to make it to my house.

I hate myself so much these days.

I'm working on my 21st mini novel, and the subject throughout it is motherhood and addictions. Addiction from prescription pain pills, heroine, cocaine, and alcohol.

Just a few days before Zinnia was born, I bought a bottle of red wine and had finished the bottle before I had gotten home. I went back and bought three more bottles. Only 1/2 a bottle survived to make it to my house.

I hate myself so much these days.

Fourteen Years

Today is my oldest daughter's Fourteenth Birthday.

Or it would be, if she were alive.

Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.

Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo's doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and "out of body" for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.

It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.

PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.

Her death was ruled an accident.

Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo's body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there's no reset button, and you don't get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn't an animal, and she wasn't unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe's tumors were declared benign. I don't think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.

Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.

Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.

I'd also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don't update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn't mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don't know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being "right" I really don't care. I don't have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.

Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.

Today is my oldest daughter's Fourteenth Birthday.

Or it would be, if she were alive.

Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.

Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo's doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and "out of body" for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.

It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.

PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.

Her death was ruled an accident.

Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo's body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there's no reset button, and you don't get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn't an animal, and she wasn't unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe's tumors were declared benign. I don't think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.

Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.

Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.

I'd also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don't update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn't mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don't know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being "right" I really don't care. I don't have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.

Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.

All In A Domain

I have a couple of domains that are offline right now because the server they are hosted on really sucks. I mean that in a strictly nice way, btw. I love the people who host me, but their server goes down right when I want to write the most.

I have a Dreamhost account, where I host my third site, and my .nu.

My issue: The person who registered the domains for me back in 1999 and 2001 has since died, and his account went to his partner, who has refused six transfer requests from me since 2004. I don't want to give up the domains because everything is connected to them. To have an email address for fourteen years, and then just have it gone, would be a little bit of over-kill for me.

Then there's my writings since 2000, my themes, some of which are paid themes, my plugins, my files from before my site was WP hosted, and other silly things that I just haven't had time to flush from the server, as well as some email addresses that don't belong to me with mail in them from people who have since passed away.

In other words, my life for the past fourteen years, well-documented with interactions, is on this server.

I plan to fully back everything up, and the domains are registered in my name. My problem is, I need to know if there is a way I can get my domain names legally. I have been nice, I have been patient, for nine years. I am responsible with my domain names, and I think I can handle two more.

Any advice?

If I cannot acquire these names by the middle of the year, I will simply stop using them.

I have a couple of domains that are offline right now because the server they are hosted on really sucks. I mean that in a strictly nice way, btw. I love the people who host me, but their server goes down right when I want to write the most.

I have a Dreamhost account, where I host my third site, and my .nu.

My issue: The person who registered the domains for me back in 1999 and 2001 has since died, and his account went to his partner, who has refused six transfer requests from me since 2004. I don't want to give up the domains because everything is connected to them. To have an email address for fourteen years, and then just have it gone, would be a little bit of over-kill for me.

Then there's my writings since 2000, my themes, some of which are paid themes, my plugins, my files from before my site was WP hosted, and other silly things that I just haven't had time to flush from the server, as well as some email addresses that don't belong to me with mail in them from people who have since passed away.

In other words, my life for the past fourteen years, well-documented with interactions, is on this server.

I plan to fully back everything up, and the domains are registered in my name. My problem is, I need to know if there is a way I can get my domain names legally. I have been nice, I have been patient, for nine years. I am responsible with my domain names, and I think I can handle two more.

Any advice?

If I cannot acquire these names by the middle of the year, I will simply stop using them.

Fuck You, Cancer

Fuck you cancer, for this:

And this:

And this:

On January 2end, I discovered two lumps under Dennis' right arm. On January 6th, they were still there. Upon some inspection today, they are still there. I found a total of four. When he asked me what that meant, I replied that there was a good chance he would be losing his lymph node from surgery. Metastatic cancer to the lymph nodes is what our oldest daughter died from. It is what made her cancer immune to radiation and chemotherapy because it had already spread so far. Stage IV. Started in her breast.

Dennis insists that he's been cancer-free since 1985. But cancer is an asshole like that. It doesn't care if you've got a family, if you want to live to see them grow up, if you love your life, if you want to live. Cancer is sneaky. It hides for a few years until you feel that you're finally safe and that nothing can hurt you again, that your suffering is over and you'll never have to protect yourself again.

We met up at a cafe to talk. I told him what had happened between his friend and I, and that I would be staying with one of my friends until our house guest left. Our guest is insistant on staying until the portraits and filming is ready for editing. I just can't stomach living with him anymore. Dennis told me that he had no idea that I felt that way, and said he was going to put our guest up in a hotel for the remaining time that he is here. I smiled at the thought. Going home. It's really what I want to do. The conversation turned to the lumps I had felt, and what it could possibly mean. Dennis is certain the lumps are just some gland swelling. I told him that I hoped he was right.

Of all the things I left unsaid in the conversation, on thing I was able to say through the lump in my throat, through the tingling in my nose, through the watery eyes, was that I couldn't do it alone. I couldn't keep our family together alone. Dennis said I have done some amazing jobs while he's on the road, but that is different. If he were to never be coming back, and I knew this for certain, I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on. I would disintegrate in the bedroom, surrounded by my own sense of self-worthlessness. When we said our vows, I took in sickness and in health to heart. For years, Dennis has been there for me while I was sick, and I am not going to abandon him now, but the death do us part is not something I assumed I would ever have to face. Damn my situation and the thoughts racing through my head. With all the things going through my mind, I have to force myself to not think about this.

We have a doctor appointment set for the 25th. I wonder if our family doctor could pick a later date? After all, time is what feeds cancer. Time is what gives it its power. Time is what a patient does not have enough of.

But maybe everything will be alright, and I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill. After all, my harasser says that I like to dramatise my life to make people feel sorry for me. Of  course I do. That's why I don't openly ask for money on my site, or steal photos of gorgeous women, like she does. One thing that amuses me - my harasser has a "dying woman" site online that I have yet to publicly post. I know she's not the person in the photos, since she never posts her real image on  her SEND ME MONEY! scam sites, but I need to find the identity of the woman in the photos before I comment on it publicly. If anyone can help, my email address is right over there.

Back to my situation.

I have faith. I have faith that Dennis will be okay, that this is just a plugged gland, or a series of pimples, boils, I'd even go for MRSA colonies at this point, because those are all things he can survive from, relatively painlessly.

I have hope. I have hope that I won't be left alone to face the world without the one who loves me, that I won't have to find someone else, not that I ever could, and hope that our children won't have to face the world without their father, whom they all love very much. Especially Chloe. She loves her daddy more than anyone else, and she'd do anything for him.

On top of that, I have fear. I can hope and pray for the best, but fear the worst. Fear normally prepares me for the worst and gets me through it. There is no getting over what I am about to embark on, if the worst should happen. There is no consoling my heart if the worst is my fate. There is no hope for me, if my world should come crashing down. There is just fear, pain and emptiness. Three things I don't want to spend the rest of my life going through.

Fuck you cancer, for this:

And this:

And this:

On January 2end, I discovered two lumps under Dennis' right arm. On January 6th, they were still there. Upon some inspection today, they are still there. I found a total of four. When he asked me what that meant, I replied that there was a good chance he would be losing his lymph node from surgery. Metastatic cancer to the lymph nodes is what our oldest daughter died from. It is what made her cancer immune to radiation and chemotherapy because it had already spread so far. Stage IV. Started in her breast.

Dennis insists that he's been cancer-free since 1985. But cancer is an asshole like that. It doesn't care if you've got a family, if you want to live to see them grow up, if you love your life, if you want to live. Cancer is sneaky. It hides for a few years until you feel that you're finally safe and that nothing can hurt you again, that your suffering is over and you'll never have to protect yourself again.

We met up at a cafe to talk. I told him what had happened between his friend and I, and that I would be staying with one of my friends until our house guest left. Our guest is insistant on staying until the portraits and filming is ready for editing. I just can't stomach living with him anymore. Dennis told me that he had no idea that I felt that way, and said he was going to put our guest up in a hotel for the remaining time that he is here. I smiled at the thought. Going home. It's really what I want to do. The conversation turned to the lumps I had felt, and what it could possibly mean. Dennis is certain the lumps are just some gland swelling. I told him that I hoped he was right.

Of all the things I left unsaid in the conversation, on thing I was able to say through the lump in my throat, through the tingling in my nose, through the watery eyes, was that I couldn't do it alone. I couldn't keep our family together alone. Dennis said I have done some amazing jobs while he's on the road, but that is different. If he were to never be coming back, and I knew this for certain, I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on. I would disintegrate in the bedroom, surrounded by my own sense of self-worthlessness. When we said our vows, I took in sickness and in health to heart. For years, Dennis has been there for me while I was sick, and I am not going to abandon him now, but the death do us part is not something I assumed I would ever have to face. Damn my situation and the thoughts racing through my head. With all the things going through my mind, I have to force myself to not think about this.

We have a doctor appointment set for the 25th. I wonder if our family doctor could pick a later date? After all, time is what feeds cancer. Time is what gives it its power. Time is what a patient does not have enough of.

But maybe everything will be alright, and I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill. After all, my harasser says that I like to dramatise my life to make people feel sorry for me. Of  course I do. That's why I don't openly ask for money on my site, or steal photos of gorgeous women, like she does. One thing that amuses me - my harasser has a "dying woman" site online that I have yet to publicly post. I know she's not the person in the photos, since she never posts her real image on  her SEND ME MONEY! scam sites, but I need to find the identity of the woman in the photos before I comment on it publicly. If anyone can help, my email address is right over there.

Back to my situation.

I have faith. I have faith that Dennis will be okay, that this is just a plugged gland, or a series of pimples, boils, I'd even go for MRSA colonies at this point, because those are all things he can survive from, relatively painlessly.

I have hope. I have hope that I won't be left alone to face the world without the one who loves me, that I won't have to find someone else, not that I ever could, and hope that our children won't have to face the world without their father, whom they all love very much. Especially Chloe. She loves her daddy more than anyone else, and she'd do anything for him.

On top of that, I have fear. I can hope and pray for the best, but fear the worst. Fear normally prepares me for the worst and gets me through it. There is no getting over what I am about to embark on, if the worst should happen. There is no consoling my heart if the worst is my fate. There is no hope for me, if my world should come crashing down. There is just fear, pain and emptiness. Three things I don't want to spend the rest of my life going through.

Ad the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good willn toward men'".

Luke 2:10

Ad the angel said unto them, Fear not, for behold, I bring unto you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you this day is born in the City of Bethlehem, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; you shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel, a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace, good willn toward men'".

Luke 2:10

Merry Christmas!

March Twenty Fifth

On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.

I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to "we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you're not thirty yet, so we're going to keep you nice and fertile." And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don't know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.

Too late for that now!

I'm not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I've taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I've gotten drunk, I've taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One's heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.

The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don't want one. It's only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*

My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I'm not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels' whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.

I'm no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is "Why? Why are you doing this when it's so close to Christmas?" Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It's a gold band with diamond "shooting stars" across the top. Inscribed on the back is L'amore è per sempre. Italian for "Love is forever.", the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.

Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn't see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don't remember anything after that. I'm hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.

I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.

The kids never woke up. I'm going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.

I'm not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.

Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I'm going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!

On March 25, 2013, our family is going to change.

I was told on November 5th 2007 that I had had a partial hysterectomy. Turns out that translates to "we cut away 70% of your uterus because it was ruptured, but you're not thirty yet, so we're going to keep you nice and fertile." And fertile I have been. In the past four years, I have had eight miscarriages. That stopped shortly after my birthday, and I had no explanation for it. Until now. As of Saturday, December 22, 2012, I am twenty five weeks pregnant, carrying what seems to be an indestructible baby. I don't know the gender, but I was first told by a physician that my baby was dead and they wanted to collect the cells from my womb and close off the cervix.

Too late for that now!

I'm not sure how healthy my baby is going to be. I've taken Metformin, Cymbalta, Effexor, Fentanyl, Glipizide, blood pressure medication, cholesterol medicine, I've gotten drunk, I've taken reds, talwin, roxys. And still Little One danced for the ultra sound for us. Little One's heart beat is strong. Little One will be born on March 25th, 2013.

The doctor who examined me said that it would be a bad idea for a vaginal birth, and I was relieved. I have never had a vaginal birth, and I don't want one. It's only recently that I have been waking up having an orgasm, being able to orgasm by simple penetration. Yes, I enjoyed every single minute of it. *swoons*

My husband started drinking on Tuesday night. I'm not sure why, just that for nearly the last week, all he has ingested is two bottle of Jack Daniels' whiskey a day. His eyes had red rims around them. His face was splotchy pale, and when I demanded that he eat something, he threw it back up immediately.

I'm no longer wearing my wedding band. Back on Wednesday, August 11, 2004, he promised me that he would never drink alcohol again after we had an argument and I ended up falling onto the hard concrete ground, and he thought I had tried to attack him, and he fought back. I suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, on my right hand, a fractured cheek bone, and a broken knee. I still feel the pain from that hurt knee to this day. When I found out through his father that he was drinking heavily again, there were many thoughts that swirled through my head. The one I want answered the most is "Why? Why are you doing this when it's so close to Christmas?" Then I slipped my wedding ring off. It's a gold band with diamond "shooting stars" across the top. Inscribed on the back is L'amore è per sempre. Italian for "Love is forever.", the lyrics to a love song that he wrote for me for our wedding, and is now amongst the hundreds of his on iTunes.

Looking at the ring, I cry. I remember when he loved me enough to not drink any alcohol. When I meant something more to him than a burden. The sadness flows through me steadily because I still love him. But I cannot risk him becoming violent. In my mind, I keep remembering when I was eight months pregnant with Chloe and his brother beat the shit out of me. My head injury was so severe that my blue eyes were black from the retina spreading so big, I couldn't see, I fumbled for the door to escape, and he struck me from the back of my head. I don't remember anything after that. I'm hoping that I passed out and that nothing happened between his brother and I. Now I come home from a two-week hospital stabilisation, and I find my love asleep on the living room floor, whiskey bottles surrounding the trash can, the Christmas tree on its side on the floor, no wrapped presents under the tree.

I did the best job I knew how to: I pulled my drunk husband onto our sofa, and covered him with a quilt. I cleaned up the liquor bottles, and started a small fire in the fireplace. My father in law and I picked up the Christmas tree, and straightened out the few presents that were scattered under the fallen tree.

The kids never woke up. I'm going to let Santa take the credit for me cleaning up Christmas.

I'm not sure what I am going to do next. What will be will be. But I know the kids deserve a decent Christmas, and Little One deserves to know their father.

Have a happy, peaceful Christmas, everyone. I'm going to post my usual Monkees graphic because the Monkees never get old! Neither does my graphic!