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At my wedding, I was dancing so furiously that I fell hard on my kneecaps. The next morning, my knees were so swollen that I had to get a wheelchair at the airport to go on my honeymoon.

We lived in just a studio apartment with just a room and a bed that came out of the wall, and my mom couldn't afford even a Happy Meal. We ate Top Ramen. I had no toys, and I had, like, two shirts, a pair of jeans, and that was it. But I had my mom to myself, and I remember it being the coolest period of time. I loved it. I really loved it.

I was the child who would leave school and take her clothes off the second I got into the house. I made my mom buy me lingerie when I was 5 years old. I was a sicko. My mother must have been mortified.

I used to love sitting on the bathroom floor in my pajamas and watching my mother get ready for an event. She'd stand in front of her vanity and apply bright red and blue makeup - it was the '80s, you know.

My mother used to sit at the foot of my bed, and she would share her dreams with me.

I couldn't even go to the bathroom alone. My mother or a social worker always went with me.

The first Mardi Gras I went to, I stayed at the Tulane AE Pi house on Broadway. Slept on a pool table one night, slept under it the next.

I wanted to write about this tropical honeymoon in part because I had the most drastically terrible honeymoon.