Because I Care
Written by Marsha Mellow 

Mardi Gras gift givers can be thoughtless or nothing short of stupid. Once I dated this guy that thought a romantic token of love was a bag full of toddler urine! With my party glitter lifestyle he thought at some point I would need to pass a UA! That was a piss poor gift! Being the genius I am I re-gifted it to his mom. Obviously she used drugs before, during (and judging on what a mess he was living at home) was still a user. I would have probably kept dating the douche-tard until St. Patty’s Day if he would have just given me one of those stupid fluorescent plush toys that you see squished in those crane games. I wouldn’t want to see one of those 3rd world toddlers out of work who make those atrocities.

Up until today that would have been the worst Mardi Gras gift ever. Well my quack-tard psychiatrist out did my failed love interest. Freaking leather bound Coach Journal? Who the hell has time to write down all of their happenings and private thoughts in a prehistoric leather bound journal? If that stuff was important and needed to be documented there would be an app on the iPhone. Perhaps if I were one of those wealthy housewives on a reality show giving it to some 3rd world pool boy/gardener and spending my fat husband’s money I would have time to write down every private detail of my life. Instead I am a very sought after entertainer, 104 KRBE’s Special K’s BFF, a weekly syndicated columnist with a column entitled “Good Advice for Stupid People” and the face of La Dolce Vita by Lauren. Not to mention managing my FaceBook page. I am BUSY!

Finally proof that my parents had sent me to a complete village idiot. His practice was a bit unconventional. Once we had an entire session in his van down by the San Jacinto river where he kept feeding me hard candy and letting me hold and pet a loveable boxer puppy all the while telling him about my first sexual experiences with my neighbor. who taught me how to masturbate. Now that I think about it, I believe I might have been actually in a kidnapper’s van because it had no windows.

There was a whole lot of confusion when I arrived for my session. Usually I would’ve been kept waiting in the lobby (that I think might have actually been decorated by Ray Charles and kindergartners) for at least an hour. I was always late and I missed my appointment that was three hours before and so I would have to go last. Not today, I was rushed right in to see the doctor. My arrival did not seem to please the receptionist because it tore her from her task of shredding files.

My therapist seemed distracted today, he looked a mess and sleep deprived. Not once did he ask me about my sex life. Just kept going on about how I was sure to hear things about him that would be lies. He asked me if I ever watched some show, To Catch a Predator. I assured him that I did not like the first Predator movie with Arnold Schwarzenegger, so I would not be investing time in a television version. When he finally stopped crying and petting my bald head he sprung his gift on me. Explaining that he was probably going to have to go away for a very long time and since there were no other therapist in a one hundred mile radius that would take me on as a patient I could write down my feelings and sexual escapades and send them to him, since we were on the verge of a break through. I could even come and visit him once he had a TDCJ address. The whole session was a bit foggy because as he was sniffling and whimpering like a kicked dog and all I heard was, Supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus.

I was relieved when his makeshift secretary barged in to inform him that the police were there and wanted to speak to him. I took advantage of the next thirty minutes helping myself to a few things on his desk. I don’t usually steal things but it is not like he would have a use for a Montblanc Starwalker Doue’ pen where he was going, besides the journal was useless without a writing utensil. I tossed the useless journal, overpriced Bic pen, some patient files for late night reading, a bottle of Grey Goose that he kept for my sessions and an autographed picture of Michael Jackson that I found in the desk drawer (that I had pried open with a letter opener) into my Louis Vuitton backpack and made my way out of the office. I did not even feel bad when I stepped over the doctor who was handcuffed and laying on the floor in the fetal position still crying.

On my way to my car I was stopped by some reporter, Chris Hansen, I think was what he told me. I was completely unphased because being a local celebrity I have done countless interviews. He kept asking me question about the doctor and none about me. He was obviously from FOX news. Since he refused to switch places with me so the cameraman could get me from my better side I excused myself.

Unable to return the Coach Journal because Dr. Quack-tard had wrote some creepy poem in the front of it, I figure what the hell? I will set out on this quest of choose your own adventure and figure out who Marsha Mellow is.

March 2011
Because I Care

February 2011
Full of Hate

January 2011
The Christmas Show That Never Should Be Part2

December 2010
The Christmas Show That Never Should Be

November 2010
Time Travel

September 2010
The Past Is A Prison

August 2010
Summer Is Cooling Down

July 2010
Taking Care of Dad

June 2010
When Life Throws You Potatoes

May 2010
Food Is The Enemy Part2

April 2010
Food Is The Enemy

March 2010
Laws For Love Part2

February 2010
Laws For Love

January 2010
The Ghost of Resolutions Past