inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Classic Nostalgia- Being Unplugged – Not Hollywood Remake Madness

How many of you are just so done with every damn thing being redone, recycled, rebooted, regurgitated from the past? I mean seriously—how many more Spider-Men, Batmen, Ghostbusters, or girlbossified reimaginings of once-perfect classics do we need? It’s not even nostalgia anymore—it’s like a copy of a copy of a blurry VHS tape that someone tried to turn into a TikTok.

When I say I’m nostalgic? I don’t mean the algorithm spoon-feeding me another reboot. I mean unplugged. No computers. No phones. No texts dinging every five seconds. Just the clink of change at the bodega, where you could get a bacon egg & cheese and a cup of coffee for under five bucks. A foam cup, too. Not some hipster compostable oat milk nonsense.

Lately, nostalgia’s become a dirty word. Like people are gripping the past so tight they forget how to actually create in the present. Especially in Hollywood. It’s like ever since COVID hit, every last creative gene got flushed down the nearest vaccinated toilet and now we’re stuck watching pixelated Frankenfilms stitched together with AI and celebrity cameos.

Okay, but listen—every now and then, the universe throws me a bone. I thought that reboot of Anaconda with Jack Black and Paul Rudd was gonna be absolute garbage. But it actually slapped! I laughed, I got that good hit of throwback dopamine, and I didn’t feel like I was watching a bloated corpse of my childhood favorites being paraded around like a puppet. Win-win. And don’t even get me started on Stranger Things—remember how that show used to feel like a love letter to 80s kids? Now? The episodes feel like AI wrote them on a deadline. The lowest ratings on IMDB don’t lie, folks. Writer gods, why hast thou forsaken us?

So yeah, when I crave nostalgia, I’m not reaching for some streaming app’s Top 10. I’m popping in a DVD—yes, a real one—and curling up on the couch next to my giant plush Scooby-Doo with the phone on silent and the world locked out. You know why? Because I want to pay attention. Full, undivided, sacred attention. Not that split-screen, scroll-and-watch nonsense we’ve all been guilted into calling relaxation.

And can we talk about how all these notifications and constant pings have turned half the population into jittery squirrels with burnout? I mean, growing up in Brooklyn in the 80s, nobody had ADHD. Why? Because we were OUTSIDE. Drinking from hydrants. Playing manhunt. Getting lost on purpose. And if someone wanted to reach you, they had to leave a message on the one phone. With the one answering machine. On the one little cassette tape. And guess what? You didn’t check it till you were good and ready. We had freedom, baby. Sweet, unreachable, unbothered FREEDOM.

To me, nostalgia is about stillness. It’s about choosing to be present in the quiet—wrapped in a soft robe with a Walkman on, letting the songs play in their original order without skipping. Maybe even dragging out that dusty vinyl from the closet and letting it crackle under the needle. Or wandering into a used bookstore, sitting on the floor, and reading a random chapter just because it caught your eye.

God, I remember walking into Barnes & Noble back in the day and seeing people sprawled in the aisles, devouring entire books like their lives depended on it. Back then I’d grumble, “get outta my way”—but now? I miss them. I miss the chaos. I miss the realness.

What do you miss most?

For me? It’s that hit of a song on the radio I haven’t heard in a decade. Not a curated playlist, not an algorithm—just a lucky stumble into memory. It plays, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, in platform sneakers, lip gloss poppin’, talking to boys I had no business talking to, and absolutely thriving.

But maybe, just maybe, nostalgia doesn’t have to mean “going backwards.” Maybe it just means making space for the parts of yourself the world forgot to love. The unplugged version of you. The one who still knows how to sit still, sip a bodega coffee, let a record play, and just be.

So yeah, Hollywood can keep the remakes.

I’ve got Scooby, a DVD player, and a killer memory bank.

And I’m not giving that up for any franchise.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
What makes you feel nostalgic?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

Forever Night Owl – Most Happy at Night

“Because the night belongs to lovers, because the night belongs to us.”

Those infamous words have followed me through so many seasons of my life, and lately, they feel spoken just for me.

I’ve always loved the night.

It’s where the noise fades, where the world exhales, where the sharp edges of the day soften into something forgiving. Night has never demanded anything from me — it simply opens its arms and says, come as you are. In the quiet hours, inhibitions loosen, laughter feels freer, and the most honest versions of ourselves slip out from hiding.

As a teenager, the night was rebellion and adrenaline — sneaking out with a fake ID, neon lights flickering across sweaty dance floors in New York City, music vibrating through my bones as if it could rearrange my future. Later, the night became contemplative — long hours spent stargazing while the rest of the world slept, lying still beneath constellations that reminded me I was small, but never insignificant.

Through all the ebbs and flows of my life — the chaos, the heartbreak, the rebuilding — one thing never wavered.
My love of the night stayed faithful to me, even when nothing else did.

Now, nightfall brings something entirely different.

Something gentler.
Something sweeter.

These days, when the sky darkens and the house grows quiet, I find myself wrapped in the soft intimacy of Mr. California’s presence. Hours slip by on the phone, carried by shameless flirting, tender laughter, and that delicious teenage-crush energy people spend decades trying to rediscover. There is comfort in knowing the night will end with his voice — low, warm, and familiar — weaving its way into my thoughts.

The night tastes like Mexican hot chocolate, rich and slow, and sounds like the softest, sexiest voice in my ear, talking me into calm, into closeness, into that suspended space where nothing else exists. There’s desire, yes — but there’s also devotion, playfulness, and the kind of emotional intimacy that feels rare and sacred.

Things aren’t perfect.
The distance aches sometimes.
The longing stretches thin on certain nights.

But what I’ve never had before — not like this — is independence. My days belong to me now. They’re full and busy and bright: friendships, purpose, movement, freedom. I live my life fully out in the world, loving the woman I’ve become. And then, when night comes and I retreat into my own space, I realize something quietly astonishing.

I have everything.

I have my freedom.
I have my peace.
And I have a man who is absolutely, undeniably crazy about me — who meets me in the dark hours not to consume me, but to share the night with me.

So yes.
The night belongs to lovers.
It belongs to whispered conversations and stolen smiles across time zones.
It belongs to longing that feels hopeful instead of desperate.
It belongs to us.

And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade these nights for anything.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
When are you most happy?
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inspiredodyssey daily prompt

The Man Who Taught Me How to Love Without Losing Myself

I have had many loves in my life — all frantic, characteristically bipolar, clingy, wildly codependent, and dangerously self-damaging. But when Mr. California came into my life, the entire dynamic changed — not by choice, but by circumstance.

I was just coming out of a toxic marriage. My ex was a drug addict, schizophrenic, and volatile. I had done everything I could to escape that relationship: I got sober, served time in jail because of him, became homeless, and somehow managed to rebuild my life. And still, I couldn’t let go. It took my incredible parents stepping in and putting him on a bus back to NYC for me to finally be free. I thank God for them every single day.

Ironically, when he left, the grief hit me like a tidal wave. The tears poured out. The sleepless nights came. The what if I can change him fantasies haunted me endlessly. In the middle of that despair, I found myself pouring my heart out on a support forum, trying to soothe my mind through the wreckage of grief.

That’s when Mr. California entered my life.

It was the simplest thing. One message:
“I’m so sorry you’re hurting. I hope you get some sleep. I’m here if you want to talk.”

From that moment, six months of steady messaging followed. In that time, I began to find myself again. I started dressing up and going out. I made new friends, became involved in my community, found a great job, and — for the first time in a long while — started sleeping again. I’m not saying all of that happened because of him, but he certainly contributed.

Our messages were long, thoughtful, and endless. They became the thing I looked forward to every night after full, busy days. And then one day, after six months of talking to a mystery man while I remained a mystery woman, I took a leap and sent a picture. To my surprise, he sent one back.

It absolutely floored me.

This man was stunning. A mix of Mexican and English heritage, dark hair, a perfectly shaped beard — and those eyes. Big, brown, beautiful eyes you could completely get lost in. This man I had been talking to for half a year was the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Honestly? A Mexican version of William Riker from Star Trek: The Next Generation. Total swoon.

When he saw my picture, the attraction wasn’t just mutual — it was electric. Texting soon moved to Discord. Then came phone calls. Then video calls. Then phone sex and cam sex, which, quite frankly, was better than any physical sex I’d ever had. It wasn’t just intense — it was devotional. It was immersive. It was magic.

Beyond that, there was something deeper. Because of all those months of talking, we already knew each other inside and out. Our interests aligned effortlessly. And most importantly, he encouraged me to speak with the priest at the church I attended and consider joining.

My faith is deeply important to me. One of the most positive impacts Mr. California has had on my life is his own profound faith. As a former altar boy and Eagle Scout, he carries a strong sense of duty, honor, and moral grounding. I had been an outsider at my church for a long time and never truly considered joining. His encouragement gave me the courage to meet with the priest and explore that path.

One year later, I am not only a member of the church — I am part of a Legion that serves the elderly and needy weekly. I am now on the path to becoming a Eucharistic minister, something that has brought me a sense of joy and purpose beyond anything I ever imagined.

But there was a dark cloud looming over us.

In late 2024, I experienced a violent, explosive manic episode that shattered my life and destroyed my relationship with Mr. California. From across the distance, he felt helpless and deeply wounded by what I was going through. He blocked me, believing he would never hear from me again.

And yet — like sunlight breaking through a storm — emails began again after I was released from the hospital three months later. Three months apart after everything we shared: the love, the intimacy, the promises that couldn’t be fulfilled. Slowly, cautiously, communication resumed.

Here’s the paradox: after more than a year of reconnecting, I am still blocked on his phone.

Anyone on the outside would say, “Just leave him. Block him back. Move on.” But what happened instead was unexpected. I learned how to love from a healthier place because of the block.

We email. I leave voicemails. He calls me. We spend hours on the phone together watching movies, talking, bonding. We exchange gifts on holidays and birthdays. This past Christmas, he sent me beautiful things — including a silk robe in my favorite color that made me feel radiant and desired.

And still, the block remains.

I spiral. I cry. I curse the universe. I ache. I get angry at him for shutting me out like that.

However —

I have learned how to live my life outside of him. Fully.

I go out with friends. I spend time with other people when he’s quiet. I write. I read. I watch my shows. I spend time with my parents. I engage in my faith and my community. None of which I was doing last year when we were recklessly in love.

He has a complicated life. Our relationship couldn’t survive me calling and texting constantly, collapsing into him.

What I’ve learned — and what has become one of the most positive transformations in my life — is that I am learning to love and be independent at the same time. The block broke my codependent patterns. It stopped the clinging, the consuming, the self-destruction. It taught me that love can breathe.

For someone like me — with bipolar chaos, poor impulse control, and a history of erasing boundaries — I needed the block. It taught me that love doesn’t have to consume me to be real.

Yes, the spirals still come. Not being able to reach him unless he reaches out hurts deeply at times. But this is the lesson God is teaching me: how to become an independent woman. I live on my own. He is 3,000 miles away. What good does it do to ache on the phone all day when we can’t yet be together, when instead I can live fully — with my friends, my parents, my church, and the work I’m called to do?

This — right here, even with the block intact — is where God wants me. To grow. To build. To become someone who can sustain love without losing herself.

And honestly?

The block won’t be there forever.

He is changing.
I am changing.
And together, we are growing — slowly, imperfectly, but honestly.

The impact he has had on my life has been nothing short of astounding.

I used to believe love meant losing myself. Now I know it means standing on my own feet while still choosing someone. That lesson didn’t come easily, but it came honestly — and it’s changed everything.

Stay tuned.

Daily writing prompt
Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.
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inspiredodyssey Uncategorized

The One Change – Seeing Myself Through Softer Eyes

We all have it — the little voice that whispers, “not good enough,” “not pretty enough,” “not thin enough.”

I wish, in the deepest part of my heart, that this voice wasn’t so loud for me.

I battle with it every day, especially with a bipolar mind that loves to spiral and exaggerate things until I’m drowning in thoughts that aren’t true. But I am trying — truly trying — to live the best life I can in spite of all that noise.

Keeping that inner critic quiet only comes with action — with putting my life in motion. Getting out there. Meeting people. Spending time with friends. Going to events. Showing up for groups. Working in therapy. Taking action to push back against the thoughts that want to swallow me whole.

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned is that rituals of self-care make the battlefield quieter.

Making my bed every morning.

Eating breakfast even when I’m not hungry.

Forcing myself to shower when my body feels heavy as stone.

These simple acts quiet that inner enemy — that inner bully — who tries to make me feel small in a world that can already be harsh and unforgiving.

But here’s the part I never say out loud:

I have lived through things that should have broken me long before now.
And yet here I am, still rebuilding, still rising, still showing up to my own life.

💔 If I Could Change Anything… It Would Be the Way I See Myself

Because how do you explain to a mind like mine — one that spirals, crashes, grieves, aches — that I am not the girl I used to be?

How do you convince yourself that you are worthy when you’ve survived:

• jail
• homelessness
• addiction
• heartbreak
• humiliation
• the ghost of Giovanni
• and the long road back to yourself?

How do you quiet that voice when your past is loud and your fears feel louder?

You do it by looking at the life you built after everything fell apart.

🔥 I Rebuilt My Life From Ashes

When my ex-husband left and the world felt like it was collapsing, I didn’t just survive — I began again.

I clawed my way out of a life that nearly destroyed me.

I found a home — my home.
I found stability.
I found dignity.
I found a routine that keeps me grounded.

I found sobriety and fought for it with everything in me. Four years is not an accident. It’s work. It’s faith. It’s choosing myself even when my brain tries to convince me I don’t deserve to be chosen.

And I found a purpose.

✝️ I Found My Faith Again

I walked into the Legion of Mary and discovered that God had not abandoned me — He was just waiting for me to come home.

I built a life where I serve others.
Where I bring Communion to the elderly and the disabled.
Where I pray with people who need comfort.
Where my presence actually means something.

That inner critic loves to pretend I am a failure.
But the truth? I am someone’s blessing every week.
I am someone’s comfort.
I am someone’s kindness showing up at their door.

🤝 I Found Love and Friendship That Feels Like Home

My friends — my circle — my people:
My soul sister, my oldest friend, my soulmate and lifelong friend… the ones who answer the late-night calls, who sit with me during spirals, who love me through the storms.
They’re not here by accident.
They’re here because I have a heart worth staying for.

🏡 And Then There Are My Parents

Two people who crossed states just to rescue me.
Two people who gave everything they had to lift me out of darkness.
Two people who still show up, every single day.

Their love is proof that I am not the worthless, unlovable thing my brain sometimes tells me I am.
Their love is evidence of my worth — and a reminder that I come from strength.

🌸 The One Thing I’m Learning to Change

Not my bipolar mind.
Not my spirals.
Not my sensitivity.
Not my softness.
Not even the messiness of loving people too deeply.

The only thing I would change…
is the way I speak to myself.

I want to look in the mirror and see the survivor, not the mistakes.
I want to see the daughter my parents are proud of, the woman my friends love, the Legionary who serves with compassion, the girl who made it out of a life that should have swallowed her.

I want to see the woman who rebuilt everything.

Because I am not the voice in my head.

I am the life I’ve created.
I am the strength I’ve shown.
I am the love I give.
I am the hope I keep reaching for.

And if I could change anything about myself, it would be to finally — finally — see myself the way the people who love me already do.

Daily writing prompt
What is one thing you would change about yourself?
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