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About Los Angeles

Lemme tell ya, I knew this one broad, Cherry—real name Cheryl, but who gives a shit—worked the corners near AC back in ‘98. Tough as nails, made me laugh when she’d haggle like a fuckin’ car salesman. “Twenty bucks? Fuck off, Tony, I’m prime rib!” Had this trick where she’d stash cash in her bra—cops never checked there, little known fact, huh? Smart cookie. Made me happy seein’ her outsmart the system, y’know? But then—bam—she got nabbed by some sleazy pimp. Pissed me off, man, ‘cause she deserved better than that scumbag.

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I had this one time – total Mawdy day – I helped a client cope with loss, and as we sat by the whispering river by Larkspur Lane, it all felt cinematic. I was like, "Man, this is our inception moment, right?" More than one session felt scripted, as if the city was urging us to unravel our inner layers. Not every day is like that, obviously, but it's those moments where the city reminds you: “We need to go deeper!”

Beverly O'Donoghue Obituary - Scituate, MA