I came across my old blog I started a couple of months before my mom was diagnosed with cancer. The posts continued regularly until my sophomore year of college. It was an interesting time in my life and I’m actually really glad to have the memories of the sadness I felt during that time of grieving her death so I can remind myself of what I NEVER WANT TO FEEL LIKE EVER AGAIN.

Here’s an excerpt from one of the entries. It was actually the essay that got me accepted to every university I applied to. I like to think my writing has done nothing but improved since, yet I am still pretty impressed with myself to reread this:

Life has taken me many places physically and mentally. I owe everything I am and will become in my life to one person, my mother. She has made it possible for me to experience life and appreciate life’s gifts. My mother is my world. My world was turned upside down on August 7th 2003, my mother’s birthday. On this once celebratable day, my mother, who I have always thought to be wonder woman, and indestructible person of steel, was diagnosed with advanced ductile carcinoma. As I have learned, this is a very fast pace and aggressive cancer. She is undergoing chemotherapy at present. It is extremely depressing for me to even look at my mom, who once had flowing blond hair, and a personality able to make even a monk smile. You can now see emptiness in her eyes from the life that has been sucked out of her. There is no evidence she even once had hair now, because it has fallen out with the chemo treatments. It is difficult for me to be around her in her time of need, due to the feeling of sadness that consumes me when I look at her. This thought is a very selfish one that I find myself dealing with constantly. The fact that my mother is my idol makes the situation all the worse. It is that much more aggravating to see somebody I adore so much, going through an experience so life changing such as that of cancer. So many lives are being affected by my mothers illness, and yet my mother will not push others feelings aside. When my mother was putting on her wig just the other day for the first time, I began crying. Not because of the hair loss, because it will grow back, but because she said to me “Does it look ok? I just don’t want to embarrass Jeremy at his football game.” My mother’s health is deteriorating and yet she does not think of herself at all. She thinks and worries about my brother (and all of her five children), and how we might be affected by her appearance. She wants nothing more than enrichment and success for her children, so that our dreams might be fulfilled. My mother is not just my friend; she is my angel and my hero.

I will love her for always and ever, but as I grow I will know now that it is wrong to ignore the life in front of me and to take things for granted. I need to not read into things because they will only deepen my depression. However, I do need to live…and just that…live. Someone once asked me what my outlook on life was, and I felt shallow and confused when I didn’t know how to answer this question. Weeks later I was still bothered by my lack of personal views on life. So in response to him I voiced that I don’t really have an outlook on life, I just live. Which ended up being the best answer of all. More often than not I have taken advantage of my mother and the love she has for me. I have confused love with money and scolded her when she didn’t buy me the Gucci purse I wanted, or the front row tickets to the Dave Matthews Band concert, convincing myself, and my friends that my mother is a horrible person and doesn’t love me. How unreasonable could I possibly be? Am I that blind to true love to not be able to recognize the things that really matter in my life? Well, no longer. I have been smacked in the face and given a wake up call from God. “Get over yourself!” he tells me, “it’s not about you anymore.” I am going through innumerable changes that I am going to choose to view as “learning experiences.” Wherever my life takes me I know that my mother will be there with me, by my side, every step of the way, opening my eyes to what is in front of me.

Keep your heads up, psychos and let your light shine, because IT. GETS. BETTER.  I PROMISE!


Change your mind and you can change your life!

Hi psychos! I know you’ve missed me. I’ve recently returned from a life-changing sabbatical of self-discovery and dick jokes. No joke.

This was a very special journey vacation. One of those “vacations” you need a vacation from. Capiche?  While gone, I spent a lot of my time emphasizing on living in the present.  Each moment brought it’s own brand of joy that could only be matched by a correlated dick joke.  I met some incredible beings and learned how to appreciate everyone’s original forms of self-expression.

When I had time to marinate in my thoughts, I wrote down what I liked about me, and what I didn’t like so much.  I worked very hard at manifesting a new life for myself.  Fast-forward to present time and we have the new and improved Bodeo, (that’s like a rodeo, but better).

I LOVE the new me.  I love it most because I worked SO hard for it.  I also love it because I’ve realized I don’t need anyone else’s approval of who I am to be happy with myself.  Nothing worth having in life comes easily and I am a brand-new being, mind, body and soul.  My new life is magical and being navigated by my friend, baby Jesus.

I reread my last post and couldn’t help but laugh out loud at myself.  Scroll down for the deets, but basically it was a post on how I once had rumors spread that I was a lesbian, people were really mean to me, I cried, I sucked dick got over it, and moved on.  The irony of this past post is I, NOW, love EVERYBODY!  I have so much passion for life, and living it, I refuse to put a label on my sexuality or anything else about me.  I just want to BE.  Be happy.  Be free.  BE ME.

This will all make sense in due time, but it was important for me to let y’all know, as soon as possible, that life isn’t about trying NOT to be something.  It’s about working VERY hard, EVERYDAY, to BE something.  Anything.  The choice is yours!

Much of the world’s time is spent attempting to fit everyone in to a mold of what society things we should be or become.  It’s suppressive, and counter-productive.  Truth and light can be preached without telling someone what NOT to do.  Instead, they should be broached by showing others what TO do and who they can become if they believe in themselves.  I am going to spend the rest of my life building others up and encouraging happiness.  There isn’t one negative thing about my life.  EVERYTHING IS PERFECT.  Even my latest dick jokes.  ::cough cough::

Liar, liar, pants on FIIIIIRE!

In middle school a jealous slut  fellow classmate sent an email to the ENTIRE  8th grade claiming I was a lesbian and tried to rape her.  PUH-LEEZ.  If you know anything about me, you know I like the dick men, but at the time, I hadn’t even made out with a boy, and it wasn’t chic to be gay, so kids went psycho.  I begged my mom to let me drop out of school even though there were only two weeks left in the year.  I cried myself to sleep every night and imagined the dumb bitch suffocating under a box dildos.  Reluctantly, I made it through the year and gained a renewed sense of excitement knowing I’d never see her again since I was going to the IB program (if you don’t know what it is, you never would’ve gotten in anyway so don’t worry about it) and only a handful of kids from my middle school would be there, and she wasn’t one of them.

Flash-forward first day of 9th grade, this gem of a person was seated next to me in every single effing class at my new school.  Effing alphabet.  Long story short, she spread the same rumor she had in middle school, kids threw food at me during lunch, girls walked by me and sang “the bitch is gonna die, the bitch is gonna die, hey hey hey” (kudos for that one, I love a catchy hook), I left school early, daily for three months, then changed schools twice, became home-schooled, and joined a traveling irish dance troupe.

True story.

I returned to mainstream schooling sophomore year, at a 3rd school.

The thing that pisses me off the most is that crap like this still goes on, even as adults.  I’ll never understand why we can’t all just get along.  Or why we intentionally hurt each other’s feelings and talk behind each other’s backs.  According to my Facebook “Fan Page” 18 people are talking about me behind my back right now.  WE ALL DO IT, so don’t pretend to be some effing saint.

Thirteen years later, I can finally appreciate the free PR, and perhaps life would be dull without drama and gossip, but I promise you there is enough entertaining TRUTH about me to focus on without inventing lies.  If pants really did get set on fire when we lied, we’d all be burning.  In hell.  Til next time, psychos.

My therapist is dead :(

Not literally.  Just to me.

It was really fun, until it wasn’t fun anymore.

I HAD to break up with my therapist because I was sick of me.  I finally get where the saying “it’s not you it’s me” comes from.  Most people who clutch to the phrase in a break-up are totally bullshitting.  It IS your bad sex you.  For what ever reason, your bad sex YOU weren’t working out for them anymore.  In this case, my therapist did everything right.  (As far as I know.  I’m not some authority on mental healthcare.)  He always listened to me, he never called me dude, he’d say “bless you” when I sneezed, and he was never late for our dates appointments.  But, I got bored, to the point where I would want to just let him watch me nap (I really am a sweetheart).  Which is probably why I should’ve stayed in the relationship with him because boredom is a repetitive theme for me.

Dealing with a break-up is like dealing with a death, except cheaper than a funeral.  (Unless they burn your shit and you have to take them to small claims court or because you are wasting gas driving by their house just to make sure they really are “having a boys night in.”  Gas isn’t cheap these days, effing psycho.)  Anywho, it’s a form of loss.  Although my therapist isn’t six feet under, or scattered across the Pacific Ocean, like with any break-up, I can’t be his friend.  I cared too much about him our relationship, because like every other relationship I’ve had, it was ALL ABOUT ME!

He was the sweetest therapist ever.  He’d call me when I was out-of-town, and he was also the best male texter I’ve ever known.  There was never a time I had to sit and ponder what  the subtext of his actual text might mean.  Granted he wasn’t really my type, which would’ve been our telling end from the start, but he had an endearing quality about him that assured me I could walk all over him tell him anything, and he’d still want to fuck see me.

I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my privacy in my time of need, while I cope with this tragic loss.  And also tweet me some good recs for a new obsession therapist.  Preferably one that looks like a Ken doll.  Kthanksbye.

I’m a Neanderthal

I know you’ve been having separation anxiety in my absence, but I totally have a good reason excuse.  Like I’ve said, I was pre-law before I was pre-fabulous so I can make an excuse for anything and everything.  I’ve been busy grinding away at auditions, comedy and men networking.  Also, my therapist was out of town so I’ve been a little emotionally unstable.  The good news is, he says I’m not bipolar and I don’t have any mental diseases.  Which is also bad news, because I really wanted something to blame my psychosis on…

I drank coffee today, so my apologies if this post comes across entirely neurotic.  Coffee should be illegal.  It makes me feel cracked out and capable of murder, but I love being able to do what I want, whenever I want way too much to ever be capable of killing someone.  At least I hope so?

A week ago I pissed my pants right before a call-back.  I’d had two auditions earlier that day, of course on opposite sides of L.A., and even if you don’t live in L.A. you’ve heard of L.A. traffic (it’s super famous).  What I’m trying to say is, I didn’t make time to pee in private, so I had to do it in public.  It reminded me of the time my sister convinced me to poop in the backyard when I was 10 years old.  Her version of the story puts me at 15 years old, but her “memories” are always a “version” of the truth.

At 10 years old, I knew it was entirely inappropriate to poop in the backyard, but I had spent the better part of the morning convincing her to turn of the TV and jump on our trampoline with me.  She reluctantly joined me on a commercial break.  As soon as we started jumping, my always erratic digestive system decided it needed a cleanse.  I told her I was going inside to the use the restroom and I’d be RIGHT back.  She said if I went inside, she was going inside too.  Ignoring the fact I told her it was number two, she persuaded me to go on the side of the house mentioning, as an added bonus, “I won’t tell anyone.”  You could argue she didn’t “make” me do it, but if you know my sister, you know how hard it is for her to leave the TV remote (she takes it to the bathroom with her), so you know how hard I  worked to get her outside.  I wasn’t about to give up on the adrenaline rush of getting double-bounced in the air, and possibly flying of the trampoline or hitting my head on a tree branch.

I took my poop.

As soon as our stepdad came home she told him what I’d done.  He made me collect my own shit and dispose of it like the potty-trained 10 year old I was.

This story is proof that I’m the better sister because I would do anything for her.  It’s also proof I’m an effing idiot.  Convenient enough, this post came full circle, further assisting the allegation I can make an excuse for anything and everything, which, disgustingly enough, includes going to the bathroom in public.

My sister still likes TV and I am still an idiot.

Some things never change.

My therapist has a penis

I started psychotherapy this week for about a million different reasons, most notably to figure out why I desire to sleep with fall in love with every attractive man I meet.

Men are my biggest vice.  They always have been.  I had my first kiss on a playground underneath a  double slide of my Southern Baptist pre-school when I was four years old.  The only detentions I ever received were for passing notes to boys or wearing short skirts.  At  seven I auditioned for the movie “The Little Rascals” and remember the casting director asking me if I had a boyfriend.  My immediate response was “I have 27.”  Lie or not, it was a ridiculous fantasy for someone in 2nd grade who moonlighted as a model for OshKosh B’Gosh.

I learned pretty early-on the control affect a woman can have on a man.  I managed to stay a virgin until an impressive 18  years old when I was a freshman in college.  Partly because my mom would’ve brutally murdered me  instilled a healthy fear in me of teenage pregnancy, and partly because I was extremely self-aware of my overactive sex drive (I used the bathroom pass in elementary school to get “in-touch” with true self.)

While I have no desire to get married and make babies in this decade, I would like to be capable of a healthy relationship with a man before I’m 30, one that is free of manipulation, games and drunk dials.  I’m not sure if therapy will help, and besides, I’ve already professionally diagnosed myself via google with Histrionic Personality Disorder.

A friend of mine recently graduated with a masters in counseling and I was excited to share my quarter-life revelation with her.  After mentioning my new therapist was male, and having given me numerous pseudo counseling sessions throughout our friendship herself,  typically with men as the hot-topic, she suggested I may benefit more from a female therapist.  I assured her as long as my therapist is unattractive it shouldn’t be an issue.

Aesthetically I have a very specific type, but that’s only if I’m, specifically, out trolling for dick male attention.  If I happen to meet a man in an unexpected arena, I don’t discriminate against hair, eye or credit card colors.

My male therapist is not my “type,” but I AM attracted to the fact he listens to me.  Like, REALLY listens to me.  Now I’m torn whether to request a female therapist, or invite the challenge of getting my male one to sleep with fall in love with me.  Or perhaps the best challenge of all is to exhibit self-control and ignore my vagina attraction.

I’m not too worried.  Knowing myself, I’ll probably be bored with him by the time he googles me and reads this.

Pogue Gone Rogue

As previously mentioned, I graduated from Florida State University, where I received a B.A. in Communication with a focus in PR and Nonverbal Comm. functioning alcoholism and baby prostitution.  Baby prostitution is best explained by the following scenario – a guy buys you a drink and you, subsequently, make out with him.  It’s not full scale whoring but if I would’ve pursued an advanced degree, the potential is definitely there.

FSU has a female to male ratio of 25:1.  I’ve never been the “hot” chick, I wasn’t in a sorority and I can only cook one thing – jello shots.  A firecracker like myself didn’t have a chance  in the A-list dating pool.   However, 96% of the men on campus were Frat-tastic collar-popping-jaeger-bombing-douchebags so if the ratio were reversed, I still wouldn’t have found a man worth pursuing.

When I first moved to Cali I lived with a college friend and her enlisted husband in Oceanside, CA where they were stationed.  The only people who live in Oceanside are those with a Marine Corps affiliation, and illegal Mexican immigrants.  Oceanside provided the perfect rebound environment.  I found myself with a reversed 25:1 ratio, and since I was one of the only 1/2 decent woman not already married to a marine, AND I possessed legal residency in the US, the odds were in my vagina’s favor.

I didn’t move to California to meet a husband.  I had just left a potential husband in Florida, so living with a married couple is about the worst thing I could have done.  Married people like to hang out with other married people so they constantly try to play matchmaker.  I wasn’t entirely opposed because I would’ve liked someone to share the love seat with, while they shnuggled on the couch, during our Sunday night recovery TV time.  After a few really awful first dates with my friend’s husband’s jarheads marines, I decided to take matters in my own hands and dabble in online dating.  (My mom met my stepdad in a chatroom via AOL in 1996 so I’ve never been opposed to online dating and thought it might be my destiny to follow in my dead mom’s footsteps.)

It’s my goal in life to be Barbie.  Like Barbie, I’m attracted to Ken Dolls blonde hair, and blue eyes.  If I’m not topless in boy shorts watching “Snapped” reruns while snacking on a jar of peanut butter, I’m telling jokes in 6 inch glitter heels, thus, I need a Ken Doll man that I can look up to when I ask him to hold my purse while I take photos and update my twitter.

Sex Men make women psycho.  There are studies to prove it, but the only proof I need is the way I behaved after sleeping with a 6’4″ blonde hair, blue-eyed man we’ll call “Lapse of Judgement.”  Maybe it was because I was fresh out of a serious relationship and vulnerable in a new city, or maybe it was simply because I hadn’t had sex with anyone but “The Love of My Life” years, but I became a stage-5-clinger.  “Lapse of Judgement” certainly wasn’t making me a priority and I refuse to be anyone’s option.  Moscato was a huge role player in what happened next, but I was clearly the root of the problem.  “Lapse of Judgement” told me he wanted to have a “guy’s night” but I’m only interested in what I want to have, so I made sure to call him 23 times to tell him.  After being sent to voice mail repeatedly, I initiated a series of text messages that will only be revealed if he decides to pursue legal action against me someday and they’re subpoenaed by an attorney.

“Lapse of Judgment” and I had only been dating about a month and it hadn’t dawned on me to stalk friend him on Facebook yet, but my Moscato fueled rage convinced me I should.  After successfully rifling through the various profiles named “Lapse of Judgement” I stumbled across the matching one, only to discover that my “Lapse of Judgement” was in an EFFING RELATIONSHIP.  WTF?!  My first thought was to drive to the theatre he was at and recreate a scene from a cheezy RomCom where I dramatically break-up his date, then end up crying over a pile of raw beef at the grocery store that lands me in the drunk tank with a prostitute who shares the secret of life with me, but my babysitter friend put me on lock-down.  So instead I spent the evening manically clicking through 841 photos of him and his “girlfriend.”  She was a barely-legal, mediocre-looking, brown-haired-girl, I’d convinced myself  he’d probably been seeking a contract marriage with to get him out of the barracks.  I’d never been the “other woman” before and had no desire to become one over a dorky Pogue who’s car made more noise than a nuclear IED.

The next day I got a mani/pedi and tanned on the beach reading “The Rules”, vowing to never sleep with a man again, before I’d at LEAST friended him on Facebook.  I made that rule up, but it would for sure be in the modern edition.

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