Release Date
“Buy Your Own Damn Cocktail”
Ce Ce Ferrari

This is the story of Ce Ce’s journey from being body slammed. It took a harsh reality for this former undercover Miami Dade Police Officer, who had a love triangle with three Mafioso’s, to walk her true path of being a divine healer.

Join Ce Ce as shares her trials, adventures and ultimately discovers her calling and true self in her first book, Buy Your Own Damn Cocktail.

Ma was the reason I looked like a bronze baby doll wearing a white lace, multi-tiered wedding gown. She was too strict and said no to everything that’s fun. When I was in tenth grade I asked Ma, “Can I be a majorette.” “No; majorettes get pregnant.” I’m surprised she didn’t say, “Don’t ride a bicycle, you might get pregnant.” Proms were definitely a no, no. For my Christian mother, having a teenage, married daughter is better than having an unwed, pregnant one.

Happy to be home, my hubby carried me over the threshold. He dumped me on the bed. Without a word, he unzipped my wedding dress and slipped it off me. He lowered his 200-pound body on top of my 105 pound body. It felt like I had an asthma attack coming on. “Hey, take it easy, I can’t breathe.” His breath was heavy and rapid. He acted like a cave man. He was kissing me on the mouth. His tongue massaged my breast and it felt gross. He spread my legs and attempted to put his penis inside me.

“Ouch, you’re hurting me.”

“It’s not going to hurt,” he mumbled. The portion of his penis he got inside me felt like a cucumber trying to go through the eye of a sewing needle.

“Strawberries” is the name of a popular nightclub in Hialeah, where I’m representing the station tonight. I arrive in a black stretch limo. The crowd is in suspense for who gets out. The chauffeur opens my door, and I step out-one leg at a time. I’m wearing a see-through chain link dress with a gold lamiae bikini underneath. My high-heeled sandals caused me to slip. I made a perfect split. The crowd laughs and cheers. Interestingly, I only hear female voices. The chauffeur lifts me up, and I saunter inside.

“You were molested at age three. Those men didn’t hurt you. Get over it. You were born with strong sexual energy. You called those men into your life. You knew them in another life; it’s called karma. You still don’t know how to use your sexual energy. You use it to tease men. Your sexual energy is to heal yourself and others.”

The drive home is slow and deliberate. My hands grip the steering wheel. If I start drifting to the roof of my car, an officer is sure to think I’m DUI. Feels like someone’s in my car. “Isn’t it easier to buy your own damn cocktail?” asks a thunderous voice in my head.

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear anything,” I said.

“You can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“You’re a freak. I can do what?”

“Ha, ha. You’re smart enough to buy your own damn Corvette, but you hustle $5.00 cocktails. That’s very human. It’s time you evolve.”

“Here’s the deal: if you want to take me out, you’ll have to buy me a new dress, new shoes, and pay to get my hair and nails done.”

“That’s all you want baby? That’s nothing. How much you need?”

“I think I can manage to get everything with $300.00.” We set up a time and place to meet for me to get the cash. The Sweat Machine takes me to a fine restaurant. He admires my appearance,

“I see you used the money I gave you wisely.”
I did my hair myself and slapped a bottle of 99-cent nail polish on my fingers. The red silk dress and pumps came from my closet. Since men want to play games, I’ve learned to be smarter.

Two days have passed and I haven’t heard from Roger. The nightmares I’ve been having about someone harming him tempt me to call 9-1-1 and report my love missing. Roger’s courier comes to my home. “Sit down, I have bad news. Roger was killed today.” I start crying and screaming, and she gives me a tight hug. She uses my grief as a way to get a cheap thrill. I push her away and plop on my sofa to mourn.

Edgar paid his doctor to induce a coma so he’d appear dead. Another man was buried in Edgar’s plot. Edgar felt it was better to be perceived dead rather than to be in a weakened state. Heads rolled when Edgar arose from the dead. He took care of those who betrayed him. His power came in handy many times. I had secrets I could use as weapons. One woman at the station was backstabbing me. She asked to borrow my lambskin dress. I told her I don’t loan my clothes. She was offended and told a coworker, “That hussy wouldn’t let me wear her dress.”
“How can you believe a Mafioso over me?” She asked. How else would Edgar know she asked to wear my dress? She was cold busted.

“You think a woman who fornicates for free is better than a woman who fornicates for pay? I think the paid sinner is smarter.” Based on Hollywood’s depiction of beauty, Donna is supposed to be an ‘It’ girl. Any woman getting more attention than her highness, offends her. It’s a double jolt when the attention grabber is a black woman.

She’s not all bad. My compassion for her grew when I caught a glimpse of her soft side. One night, she curled up and cried about her crappy childhood. Watching her get mushy with her puppy could melt King Kong’s heart

My brother visits me. The handyman doesn’t believe he’s my brother. He feels I’m cheating on him, though we don’t have an intimate relationship. I get a call from my son’s school counselor. She says a man called and said I was having sex with my son. She said when she called my son into the office and asked about the call, he started to laugh. “Your son’s reaction told me it was a false accusation.” Someone filled out a form to have my mail detained, had my telephone and electricity disconnected, and slashed the tires on my Corvette. I knew it was the handyman. I confronted him, and he denied my accusation. It’d be cheaper to pay for my own damn handyman.

An elderly white-haired white man sits at the bulkhead of the DC-10 I’m working. He could play the role of God in a movie. He’s been staring at me in a weird way. It’s like a glare, stare. “Young lady, may I speak to you?” The man asks. I nod my head. “You have a purpose, but you aren’t fulfilling it. You need to get out of the business of being a servant and learn to be of service. When I say you need to let go of being a servant, it means letting go of your family too. You remind me of a woman who was an attendant for ten years. She now owns her own cosmetic company. Her man is rich, but she doesn’t need his money. She’s a millionaire. There’s an organization you should connect with. You can reach them 24 hours a day seven days a week.” He smiles and sits back. It’s spooky how he knows I’m a sucker for family and striving to find a rich man.

“Sure, we’ll have a bottle of Cristal,” my coworker says. He places the order.
“That’ll be $225.00,” the bartender said.

Homey the nerd paid the tab and ordered three glasses. My coworker was pissed off because he had the audacity to want to share it with us. After drinking the champagne, we left Homey at the bar and danced and mingled with men who were hip. We leave The Gate and go to Jerry’s Deli for breakfast. Two good looking men ask to join us. My coworker winks thinking we’ve made another score. Jerry’s prices are high, so we order big time. The men are delightful. One-by-one, they go to the men’s room. That’s the last we saw of them. We’re stuck with a $102.00 bill.

Deep into my meditation this morning, I see the vision of a face that looks somewhat familiar. I don’t know if it’s an old man or woman. I sharpen the lens in my third eye. Holy cow, it’s Mother Teresa! I sit in stillness to hear her voice.
“My dear child, you have tremendous healing abilities. Take care of yourself. Don’t deny yourself the pleasures of earth. They’re here for you to enjoy. Don’t be a martyr like I was. The hump on my back symbolizes the world’s troubles I carried. This is not the way to salvation. When you’re ready, I’ll help you with your healing gifts.” The combination of her love and pain makes me cry. She gave love to others, but I wonder how much she gave herself.

We’re in the Millionaire Cowboy Bar, our favorite hangout. When I need an ego boost, I hop on a plane to Jackson Hole. I’ve gotten attention in my day, but here it’s cranked up. The locals don’t know what to think of me. A local mountain-looking man comes over.

“Is you a hooker?” I want to ask if his momma was a hooker.
“If you want a hooker, talk to one of your local women sitting at the bar. Every night I’m here, they slide off their stools and leave with men they just met.”
He squints. “Are you a drug dealer?”
“No, but I saw some blondes in the ladies room snorting coke; maybe they can help you.”

At home, I call Ma and get the full story. We have a crying fest. Laura’s mother, Ma’s sister and her husband are at Ma’s. Laura had finally left her abusive boyfriend and moved in with her mother. Her boyfriend knocked on her parent’s door. Laura opened the door, and he pulled out a gun. She ran towards the hallway, and he shot her in the head. Her eight-year-old daughter ran out and saw her on the floor. Her body was moving. Her boyfriend looked at her daughter and shot Laura again at close range. Then he shot himself. They both lay dead on Laura’s mother’s living room floor.

The trauma of Laura’s death and the incarceration of my son have turned my spine into mashed potatoes. I don’t have a support system. My life is in shambles. My son has a new criminal charge. When he was escorted from court to the jail, two jailors accused him of trying to escape. My son said they were asking him questions, and he refused to answer. The jailor sprayed him with pepper spray. I don’t know who to believe. I’m tired. I feel incarcerated. My son’s afraid the jailors are going to set him up. He has me contact the night lieutenant to have special guards watch him. The psychiatrist the state hired interviews me. He asks several questions about my son’s childhood. He’s trying to get to the root of my son’s bizarre behavior.

A relative said, “Imagine a movie based on a world leader who killed adults and children, and caused pestilence and destruction on his subjects if they disobeyed. The world would hate him. The end of the movie reveals the leader is God.”

Poor adults, who can’t pay for healthcare, continue having babies they can’t afford. They expect “Daddy Government” to pay for their healthcare. Politicians need to address procreation habits of poor people. Politicians won’t talk about this because it’s not politically correct. Avoiding this subject lets them pander for votes. The shrinking middle class and the wealthy will be responsible for millions of irresponsible people who could care less about their health. An elderly Mexican man said, “Me like Obama; me gonna get free healthcare.”
“It’s not free sir; I’ll pay for it,” I said.

Obama has been President for two years, and I’m still waiting to see how he’s so much smarter and brilliant than Palin. I don’t feel it’s smart to focus on healthcare and amnesty for illegal immigrants when over 14 million Americans don’t have jobs. Smartness is beyond being able to correctly read words from a teleprompter. Some say we need to give Obama more time to improve the economy. Giving him more time to do more of what’s not working is like a woman bitching about her husband who hasn’t worked in a long time. The husband finally starts working by building a patio onto their home, but his efforts aren’t changing their financial situation.

Attorney General, Eric Holder, went public to say he was filing a lawsuit against the Arizona immigration law because he felt it would be racial profiling. When asked if he’d read the law, he said no. If Palin did the same she’d have been called a dummy.
My father said he doesn’t believe the saying “You reap what you sow” because he’s been kind to people and given them money, and they haven’t been kind to him. He reaped exactly what he sowed. Enabling is not a good thing. He crippled people’s wings through his inability to say no, so he has karma for his actions just as I have.
Rich people get a bad rap from poor people. Some people think they’re better than rich people because they’re poor. A poor coworker said, “There’s no way Warren Buffet is a giving man. He wouldn’t be worth billions if gave his money to needy people.”
“How much of your time do you give to volunteer work?” I asked.
“None.” There are many ways to give, and it takes a lot of work to maintain your wealth.

Oprah Winfrey is a mirror in many ways. I admire her professional and financial success however her personal evolvement hasn’t impressed me. As a billionaire she doesn’t maintain the slender figure she wants. This is because no amount of money can buy will power. Years ago when I said this about her, people got angry. Now I hear more people saying what I saw years ago. Oprah recently admits she’s been talking the talk but not walking the walk and she was embarrassed. Many people worship emotionally imbalanced people because they’re famous.

I’m called crazy for my spiritual beliefs and for believing in the occult. If I was a woman who had silicone balloons surgically inserted into my breasts, injected my face with Botox, freaked out about getting older, smoked a cigarette every 15 minutes, was depressed and suicidal because I didn’t have a man and/or children, I’d be considered normal. I choose to be called crazy for what I call my truths. The people who call me crazy are those who believe everything in the Bible. They believe Jesus walked on water, Moses parted the Red Sea, Noah kept animals and people in the ark during the flood, God created the earth in seven days, and He created Adam and Eve. They believe God took a rib from Adam and created Eve, yet I’m crazy for believing I can talk to the dead. I feel these things are possible because I believe in magic.

Jesus seems to like freaks like the biker and me because we’re open. I’ll tell you now; I charge for my healings. Jesus said he’s the physical manifestation of Buddha’s consciousness. You can’t reach Christ consciousness without an expanded consciousness like Buddha’s. Without the faith of Moses, I’d stunt my growth and give in to my ego. The energy of Jesus, Buddha, and Moses is my trinity.