This mother’s day hasn’t been that hard for me….and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Usually this weekend hits me like a steel toe to the gut. I’m hurled over crying for something that I can’t really explain. It’s more than mourning over a dead parent. It’s more complicated and even darker than death itself. It’s this bleak feeling that I’m cursed and destined for endless pain. Forever feeling different and inadequate because I never got to experience this whole unconditional mother’s love thing that apparently is god given to everyone but me.Read More
Acting class is a great way to make new friends and connections. That’s how I got my first agent was through a referral from a friend in my acting class. Acting class is also a great way to develop a cocaine addiction. That’s how I found my first cocaine dealer was through a referral from a friend in my acting class. Sex, drugs, and memorizing lines…Read More
I’m sad and restless and want someone to fuck. I’ve sexualized my feelings for so long that I equate sorrow with finger-banging. Unfortunately, I’m breaking old patterns and will not be looking for my next prisoner for my lust or a shirt to discreetly wipe my snot on. Nope. Nope. Nope. Instead, I’ll write. I’ll sit with my pain. I will breath in and out. I’ll blow my nose into a Kleenex. It’s not the same as having an orgasm, but such is life…meaning, life sucks.Read More
I was so embarrassed that I didn’t have a mother. It was worse than a thousand pimples on my face. I hated being different from other kids and having a dead mom made me the biggest freak of them all. I tried as hard as I could to blend in by emulating others. I wore Abercrombie & Fitch cargo Khakis, a monogrammed L.L. Bean book bag, a silver tulip neckless from Mignon Faget (a fancy jewelry designer in New Orleans), Adidas tennis shoes with alternate shoe laces that were a different color other than just grey or black, anything with a Ralph Lauren Polo logo, I got my haircut where they got their hair cut… But no matter what I wore or what I did, I always stood out. I could never fit in. There was never enough Dream GAP perfume to disguise how inferior I felt or really, how inferior I actually was.Read More
My mother was classically beautiful. Her looks were the embodiment of a nice girl. Freely smiling in every picture, exposing her perfect teeth and optimism. She had big, bright eyes that sparkled with charm. But underneath…was something completely different. There was an ugliness. A hatred towards herself. It was so loud she escaped to heroin, abusive men, and excessive spending to silence her demons. She endured an overwhelming emptiness, but nothing could possibly fill the void within. She was never able to love herself, and that torment eventually led to her drug related murder. People have mentioned to me that I look so much like my mother. I especially have her eyes. But do I have everything beneath as well?Read More
My mother, Cathy Campbell, at the age of 30 watched her parents get brutally stabbed to death all within the confines of a station wagon. Cathy was told to keep driving, as two men took hostage. They robbed them while stabbing her parents multiple times before exiting the murder car. (67 stab wounds to be exact for her mother. Mostly on her face. 47 lacerations counted on her father). Cathy was uninjured, but her face, hair and body were covered with her parents splattered blood. She even thought that she herself had gotten cut too, but recognized the blood wasn’t hers. She drove straight to the emergency room where her parents were both pronounced dead. A couple months after this, she got pregnant with me. God, I’ve got great timing.Read More
I just saw Three Identical Strangers, and it got me thinking. Like a deep, sad sort of thinking. You know, the type of thinking that encompasses your whole body, where time freezes, or at least the concept of it vanishes as you think about your total life existence. Suddenly a burst of images, old feelings, a peculiar childhood memory flashes. You are reminded that you were once in a completely different body, in a completely different background, with a completely different sensibility. Yet the same soul, your soul, this soul has been there the entire time. It hits you in a way that it has never done before… what “they” say is right. You are a spiritual being living a human experience. You’ve heard this phrase before, and you’ve liked the idea of it, but now the clarity of it all, knocks you down to your soulful core. This epiphany, as if it has its own beating body, floats over you as you make eye contact with strangers walking down the street. You don’t smile. That would cheapen this experience. You simply see them. Your eyes search out theirs. You observe that they are spiritual beings engulfed in aloofness and fear. You realize that nothing really matters in this life so you might as well follow your desires because your life is led by your desires anyway. Listen to them. Nothing is too small or too big. Go out and seize the day. Stop beating yourself up. No one knows what they are doing. Why do you give people so much power over you? They are just tiny, confused creatures themselves that have popped up in your path. Some are good. Some are not so good. Focus on the good ones. They’re more important anyway. Seize this life. You have just as much of a right to live an extraordinary life as anyone else…. Annnnnnnnnd then some jackass honks at another jackass, and you impulsively roll your eyes and grind your teeth out of pure disgust for people’s road rage. And just like that, that feeling is gone and basically forgotten about.
I went to one of the most expensive private schools in the South called Country Day. It was located in Old Metairie, a suburb adjacent to New Orleans where all the rich, white people lived…the ones that voted for David Duke. We also lived in Old Metairie, walking distance from school. Or as I preferred, a 7 minute bike ride.Read More
If your mother’s dead like mine or if you currently have a shit mom, then you might feel how I feel on Mother’s Day…sad, angry, jealous and profoundly heartbroken. If that’s not already bad enough, you’re then surrounded by people celebrating and rejoicing in gratitude for the exact same thing that has inflicted you so much pain.Read More
Writing is hard. I put so much pressure on myself as if I’m figuring out my existence on this planet through the keyboard of my MacBook Air. I sit here with this desperate need to prove myself. To any man who broke my heart or even swiped left, to anyone who didn’t believe in me, to any acting teacher who told me that I wasn’t good as is and that I should change my appearance or voice in order to make it in this industry, to any asshole kid from my childhood who called me fat and made me cry, to any restaurant or bar manager who fired me and forced me to feel dumb, to any dick customers who were rude, to any guy who treated me nothing more than a sexual object for themselves, to any selfish man who I slept with who wasn’t at all curious about my clit, to anyone who lied or deceived me or even cut me in line, to anyone who unfollowed me on Instagram or Twitter, to anyone who honked at me on the road, to anyone who has not invited me to their 4th of July Day parties and then obnoxiously post about it, and then to my father for not loving me the way I should have been loved and to whomever killed my mother and then dumped her lifeless body at a grocery store parking lot with her breasts hanging out as if she were merely just a piece of trash…
Last week I spent 6 days and 5 nights with women who had lost their mother’s at an early age. It was called a Motherless Daughthers retreat. I signed up last September. Honestly, it was a whim decision. I was sad and on the internet one afternoon, (always a dangerous combination), and there was money in my bank account. The retreat seemed like it was going to be in a beautiful location in Santa Cruz. You know, it’s always nice to leave Los Angeles from time to time. Plus, the program was led by these two amazing writers whom I’ve always wanted to meet. So I said fuck it and just forked over some dough and then kinda forgotten about it as time passed. Recently, I’ve been in less pain about my mother. (She was murdered when I was one). I mean, there’s always going to be an underlining sadness in me, but I’ve embraced it. This blog has helped. Being in therapy has helped. So I wasn’t really jonesing for a getaway. But alas, the time came, and I had to show up to this thing.Read More
I want to write about this new trend of murder shows because it seems murder is annoyingly the hot topic nowadays. Perhaps it all started with the Serial podcast that everyone obsessed over followed by Making a Murderer. Now Netflix is nothing but documentaries on serial killers and real unsolved crimes. There’s an actual podcast called My Favorite Murder that’s trending. Ewww. A murder obsessed epidemic is going on. And it’s pissing me off.Read More
A thing or two about me is that, I love anything with tomatoes and…I grew up without a mother. Even though I know you’re really intrigued about my love for tomatoes. (All tomatoes? Like in everything? Tomatoes as a topping on a pizza? But it already has marina which is tomato based. What about ketchup? Do you count that? It’s mainly just sugar). But this piece isn’t about tomatoes. (And yes, I group ketchup in as my love for tomatoes obviously). < Sigh > It’s about the latter.