Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Wednesday, 14 November 2018

Dear Vincent, I forgave myself for not being Lena Dunham.

Dear Vincent, 

I have a saying that goes, Aren’t professional boundaries a bummer.

Also, Most people’s lives are a total disaster. Their lives and their Tupperware drawers and the corner at the side of their beds.

Also, the permafrost is melting in Siberia. 

Years ago, I forgave myself for not being Margaret Atwood. Today I am forgiving myself for not being Lena Dunham. I always thought I’d excel at being a Lena Dunham Sort of Person. But listening to an interview, it all sounds rather strenuous. She just detoxed from benzos, and she had to get a hysterectomy. Beyond cervical orgasms, I don’t have much need for my uterus, and yet, I’m glad I still have one. 

So I don’t get to be Margaret Atwood, or Lena Dunham, or have a cervical orgasm, and I’m forgiven. 


Photo Credit equals The New York Times. 
Thanks a bunch NYT!
Likely your professional boundaries are
More of a bummer 
than mine. 

The other thing I want to say is, Lena Dunham named her uterus Judy.

One brutal Tuesday morning last February, I decided I wanted to cut my life off at 39 years, 4 months and 19 days. But now I’ve decided I’d like to be alive when Oprah dies. This might be hard, since I could see Oprah sticking herself in a freezer, to be awoken in the year 2222. Her century-long dreams will be a deep green regal forest, and when she opens her eyes, she’ll feel so grateful, and she’ll know so many things for sure.  


Everything is Green. Love, Oprah
Photo Credit equals the Oprah Magazine, as shown in eonline.com. 
Gee thanks!

"Erica," says Margaret Atwood. "Where are you?"


It’s 6:30 a.m. on Sunday, November 4, 2018. Almost like I’m a normal person, I slept in until 6:13, even though it was Daylight Savings day. Fall Back. The star of my life’s most beautiful blogging fairy tale used to hate that. I’m in the middle of taking a shit. On the stove, the espresso pot is starting to bubble, and then off goes the smoke alarm. All my neighbours likely hate me. After the espresso, I bailed on my exercise routine, and my thighs seemed 1.5 cm. too wide on either side. The menstruation app says announced the end of my fertile window. It was a dramatic Sunday morning rage, and I felt like I’d wasted the day. 

When I have insomnia, sometimes I listen to Oprah, and this is only a mildly embarrassing to say, and I’m still saying it. I always remember the episode when Elizabeth Gilbert told Oprah that every day, she gives herself a quest. For example, writing down the story of her life onto six index cards, or dragging herself out of the house and not coming home until she finds something beautiful and one time she saw a parade of elephants, maybe in front of the bank. She thought this was beautiful, not thinking of how much elephants in America tend to suffer. 

Anyways, my Sunday, November 4th quest was going to be

1) Buy an irresponsible lunch at the bulk food store.
2) Make an offering out of the massive hardened plasticene erect dick I’d made at Authentic Movement Class. 
3) Maybe try and buy jeggings since mine have holes in the pockets and holes in the crotch. 




In fact, the massive hardened plasticene dick did not get born at Authentic Movement Class. 
In the beginning, the plasticene transformed from a sharp brown rectangular prism, into a non-descript blob, interspersed with little dents from my fingernails. Our Authentic Movement teacher always tells us, Soyez les cadeaux que vous êtes, which means, be the gifts that you are, and she encouraged us to make a spontaneous sentence to go with our plasticene.

My spontaneous sentence was, 
Most people, if they were me, would have given up by now. 
I did not exactly mean this about the plasticene. I meant giving up about everything else. I did not give up on my plasticene.

When I got home, I moulded the generic non-descript blob of plasticene into a massive and exquisite erect penis, which stood next to a vagina type fold that got cradled inside a soothing-looking canoe-shaped brown bowl. All of this hardened into something vaguely permanent.

Now I am trying to remember what happened to the vagina type fold that got cradled inside a soothing-looking canoe-shaped brown bowl. There was no sentence to go with it. It was supposed to symbolize me feeling cradled and held and safe. I can’t remember what I did with it. 

As for the massive erect cock, I’d wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it in a small silver Simon’s bag from when I bought all brand new underwear, and the dick was ready for its perfect offering, and the bag rested at the bottom of my living room closet which is vaguely and scandalously unruly. 

Preparing for my Sunday, November 4th quest, I opened the Simon’s bag and beheld, the massive cock had broken in two. Now the offering would not be quite as perfect or as exquisite. Still, I remained committed to my quest.




As fate would have it, on Saturday, November 3rd, I had about 45 too many minutes to myself which led me to Google your name, plus the street my friend said you lived on according to reliable and top-secret sources. 

As fate would have it, Google had an address to go with the Vincent!

The address did not match the neighbourhood my friend said you lived in. She was kind and wise enough not to give me the exact number. But I decided that just in case, after my irresponsible bulk food store lunch, I would drag ass to the house with the silver Simon’s bag and the broken and massive

My responsible bulk food store lunch was soothing small plastic bags full of chocolate covered strawberries and almonds, unsalted but roasted no-peanut mixed nuts, and those weird corn chippy flaxseed crackers that likely cause immense turmoil to all your estrogen levels. 

The irresponsible bulk food store lunch cost five dollars and 35 cents and took me about three and a half minutes to eat. 

The Vincent House was just south of Jean Talon and east of the market, and not on the sunny side of the street. With aspirations of discretion, I crossed to the sunny side and looked up to the second floor of the shaded brick duplex. 

Against vast odds, the door opened! I hoped hard, but it was not you. The Other Vincent was taller, younger without a beard and with a tiny girlfriend. Other Vincent and Tiny Girlfriend walked down the stairs and over to a small grey Honda, and drove away. I laughed pretty hard for a pretty sad day, and did not leave the broken dick there. 

You must be so pleased that I forgave myself for not being Lena Dunham.
My friend Caroline’s reading a book called Zapped, and the book says all the Wifi is fucking up everyone’s sperm count, and essentially we’re all getting microwaved.

Faithful to my quest, I walked approximately 5.2 km all the way down to the Bay, and the jeggings did not look spectacular, but I still bought them. Two days later,  I would exchange them, and struggle to make peace with the way my thighs appeared wrapped up inside of them, and by the time I made this peace, they ripped in the crotch, and I might spend all of November buying jeggings and then, taking them back. 




I left the big broken dick on a bench underneath a burgundy umbrella somewhere near Place des Arts metro. The broken dick could be called,

What is your low-grade calling? Where is your testosterone?
Or else,
Some undying love is better off living a short life.



I have a saying that goes, You can’t fuck up a Sunday morning.
Also, The more sane I feel, the more my spine seems crooked. 
Also, You’re so beautiful. Hating yourself is so stupid. 

Love, Erica. 

So Mondays without Vincent is having a little reprise. Please feel free to send your own imaginary letters to Vincent or to me at ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. 



10 000 Years of Buying Jeggings

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Thursday, 8 November 2018

Dear Vincent, There is more love on the wall, than there are Vincents and than there are fucks.




Tuesday, October, 10, 2018 

Dear Vincent, 


There is more love on the wall, than there are Vincents, and than there are fucks.  You imaginary sandwich rejection email got 155 hits in two days, and four likes on Facebook, and four loves. I recently bought a new shower curtain, and I’m pleased with it.  Mostly I guess I am doing okay, but I miss you.

Love, Erica.



Saturday, October 27, 2018

Dear Vincent,

Happy Saturday!

I slept in until 6:08. Now it is 9:30 and so far I have given myself four orgasms. I feel a bit on edge. 
Maybe because last night I dreamt I hooked up with Simon, and Simon is dead.

Monday is my birthday and though it has been my most creative and lucrative year so far, I feel mournful about a series of vague and specific things.

I finished inahling The Buddha and the Borderline book, and I'd recommend it. It seems they call it borderline because it means the border of neurotic and psychotic, and I find this deeply unflattering. The author’s happy ending was Buddhism. I already tried that once. The book contained a great deal about accepting two opposing truths at the same time.

the buddha & the borderline by Kiera Van Gelder

Last year on my birthday, my friend-who-invited-me-to-his-threesome-in-April-of-2015 made me ejaculate on my sister’s living room floor. The next day I puked in my mouth while sucking his cock. I miss being your one-sided pen pal. I hope your life is beautiful and exquisite.

Love, Erica.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Dear Vincent,

I am walking past your windowless office. It is my 33rd birthday. I am wearing my red raincoat, and calculating how many of the six people I more or less fucked at the age of 32 have sent me birthday wishes. So far I am at 2 out of 6. So 33.33 etc percent. Franklin’s wishes were threefold, but all emoticons. I guess I never told you I hooked up with Franklin. In fact, it was quite stellar. Then they pretty much ghosted.

Love, Erica. Birthday Selfie

Birthday Selfie

Saturday, November 3, 2018

Dear Vincent,

Can you please cure me of the whole thing through one mediocre slobbery kiss and a boring Saturday afternoon lying on the couch watching sports?

Love, Erica.

Monday, November 6, 2018

Dear Vincent,

It was a four-orgasm morning once again.

Though I woke up at 4:51 a.m. without an alarm, it felt like someone had just set off the smoke detector. From ovulation on, I feel like I need drugs. I hope you had a nice weekend. My apartment is not quite as immaculate as it used to be, but almost. I think I will go back to writing you letters on the Internet.

Love, Erica.


Dear Readers,


Please cure me of this whole thing by sending your imaginary emails to me or to Vincent at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.


Thanks.


Love, Erica.


The Wizard says, I can't go back, I don't know how it works.

Also, Your Life is of Supreme Importance.

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Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.

Dear Vincent, Love you. Good-bye.



Monday, 8 October 2018

Dear Vincent, Love you. Good-bye.


Saturday, September 22, 2018 

Dear Vincent,


The new phrases on my wall are,
Weep no more, my thighs, and
I is for Inconsolable. 
Love you, Goodbye.
Weep no more, my thighs.
(By the way, my thighs are the best I can do.)

What I think might help is if you could somehow write me a formal sandwich rejection letter. If you are able to do this, I will not tell the government, or post it on the internet. Or you can sign the eloquent letter I have composed on your behalf this morning. Or I will pretend you wrote and signed the eloquent letter I have composed on your behalf this morning. 

In the meantime, I will strive not to propel myself by the misguided delusion that your face will appear on Bumble, we’ll match and then, my heart and cells will melt as finally, after all that longing, we eat the fairy tale sandwich. In fact, I know that you are not on Bumble. I joined at 2 a.m. on Tuesday morning after our appointment, and already I have swiped all of the Montreal men between the ages of 33 and 51. 

Tonight I am going on a bowling date with a 34-year-old Vincent who works in informatique. His incessant messages indicate anxious and irritating attachment patterns. It’s almost certain he’s too young for me, and quite possibly the evening will be mostly mediocre, but I suppose that at least it will be real.

Love, Erica.

Monday, September 17 was my last Monday with Vincent.

We shook hands.
He did not walk me to the elevator.
I left him with an envelope, and a yellow winky faced stress ball, to replace the stress ball apple, whose stem I once broke.

In the envelope was a birthday card, covered with faceless beards and the words, Joyeux anniversaire jeune homme. Someone told me Vincent’s birthday, and the date remains, one of my very few secrets.

The purple words inside the card are,

Dear Vincent,

I could not find any, Farewell to My Most Beloved Therapist Card, so this one will have to be good enough. Thank you for seeing me, and for caring more than you had to.

Joyeux anniversaire, jeune homme.

I hope that somehow this sincere adulation will bring you at least a touch of warmth and comfort at some point along this strange and beautiful life.

Love, Erica.


Then there was a lottery ticket, and Line 26 of the Code of Ethics of Psychologists, according to the Government of Quebec, which I always tried to interpret to mean that after our last session, Vincent could kind of invite me out for a sandwich if he really wanted to.

Imaginary Sandwich Rejection Letter: 

Dear Erica,

It is always nice to hear from you. Thank you for your Joyeux annniversaire, jeune homme card. It made me laugh and shed approximately three tears. As I have mentioned before, it is not usually standard or appropriate for psychologists to email their patients; however, our relationship has taken a few un-standard turns, and as such, I feel you deserve to hear some of my final remarks.

Included with your card, I imagine the psychologist’s ethics about the end of the professional relationship was meant as a last-ditch and possibly humorous attempt to extend the narrative of your eventual brilliant screenplay Mondays without Vincent. Nobody can wait for this screenplay. While most people I know would have done the same thing as you, I want to be clear that I will never be contacting you to invite you out for a sandwich, or to the blood donor clinic, or to bowling. Despite the potential ambiguity of what “the end of the professional relationship” entails, I could never go there, and will not ever go there. Professional boundaries aside, it’s an ethically shitty thing to do, and though I hesitate to perpetuate your schema that everyone else knows what’s in your best interest better than you do, my pursuing a romantic relationship would not be respectful or fair to you at all.

I remain not as at ease as you with words, but I hope you will patiently receive my further thoughts on this matter.

Just as you do not love all your cleaning clients equally, I do not exactly love all my patients equally. I think we did enjoy a certain chemistry and complicité. Due to our ages, genders, and what I might humbly refer to as, relative charms and good looks, I can see how this might have been misconstrued to mean something else, particularly after the Bumble incident. This incident was among one of the most awkward and embarrassing things to happen in my entire career. I absolutely understand how natural it would be to believe the match was not accidental, but I absolutely assure you that it was. This is what happened.

It was a desperate, lonely, horny, and cold Saturday night in January. Lonely, horny, hungry, tired, psychologists get like this too. So I drank my feelings, joined Bumble on a whim, and got to swiping, drunk, fast, and haphazardly. I came upon a cute girl with an interesting shirt and hair, and excellent legs that were suspended in a compelling and athletic position. I was barely looking at the names and somehow I did not realize that I had in fact, sat across from this person every Monday and then every other Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday afternoon for nearly 1.5 years. Hungover and hazy, I woke up the next morning to your charming and clever message about professional boundaries and taking you out for a sandwich. I stared at my screen in horrified paralysis, shocked and humiliated that I’d somehow managed to fuck up this hard. Once again, I wholeheartedly apologize for the three agonizing and confusing days during which you had to wait to discover what the fuck was going on. One blessing, I suppose, was that the incident did precipitate for you expressing your feelings for me. Although this seemed like it brought you some relief, I truly wish the context had been more far appropriate, and I’m so sorry for how the ordeal may have tainted our therapeutic relationship.

My inability to date you is not something you should take personally, nor does it mean that you are not loveable or datable. Your emotional challenges do not disqualify you from being in a relationship. If anything, your emotional acuity and transparency could make a potential relationship deeply rich and healing and growthful, if that’s what you want. You have a delightful sense of humour, and are wonderfully creative and charming. I’ve no doubt you’ll make some lucky dude’s world and that your beautiful blogging fairy tale days are not over yet.

As for your love for me, while undeniably flattering, I have to say that, with your exquisite imagination, it is almost certain that your vision of me is far too generous and nothing I could ever live up to. Though I cannot concretely prove this to you, please believe me when I tell you that I am merely a person with the same wounds and desires and flaws as every other mediocre and disappointing human. I do not watch golf and I am not fond of cats, but as you suspected, I often leave dirty dishes in the sink, all day and even all night. I’ve been known to drink my feelings, which alongside your spectacular health routines, would surely become tiresome after not very long.  My bathroom sink and floor are hardly immaculate, and my last girlfriend dumped me for being avoidant and opting to play video games instead of having sex.

The next dude you fall in love with should totally feel like he’s won the lottery. In the meantime, I wish you a life filled with love, laughter, healing, joy and creativity. May you enjoy countless sandwiches in the company of delightful and deserving and available friends and suitors. Working with you was a pleasure and a privilege. You are not someone I will soon or easily forget. Take good care of yourself.

Love, Vincent.  
Up-close God is not as exquisite. F is for Face.

Dear Vincent,

When I get old, I think I will do Sudoku, and if my vision holds out, I have always found jigsaw puzzles to be rather soothing. You will remained a cherished part of my journey. I also hope the next person who falls in love with you makes you feel like you’ve won the lottery. We have no idea how we might end up changing someone’s life.

Love, Erica.

p.s. In person, 34-year-old Vincent had funny shaped ears and sad wisps of hair around his oddly shaped head. While we were buying bowling shoes, I smelled him and it was not the best. He smelled like I'm horny and lazy and also very lonely. I totally creamed him at bowling and somehow got three strikes and two spares with my granny bowl techniques. I felt a little embarrassed about how pleased this made me and had to turn my head several times to hide my smile.   Love you. Goodbye. 


If you're wondering how life without Vincent is going, it is not so terrible to sometimes pretty great. I bought a new shower curtain, and I'm pleased with it. Soon this blog will attempt to embark on some kinds of brand new adventures. In the meantime and forever, please feel free to write to me, or to Imaginary Vincent at the secret email address, ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. If applicable, we'd be pleased to read or help you with your sandwich rejection emails. The next person you fall in love with should totally feel like they've won the lottery. Love, Erica.  



Love you. Goodbye.

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Sunday, 9 September 2018

Dear Vincent, Did you lie about your age on Bumble?


Dear Vincent,

I was wondering if you would please consider answering all or any of the following questions for the screenplay. It would mean a very generous contribution to the arts, if not to the next Beautiful Blogging Fairytale. 

How long have you been doing yoga for?

Are your parents alive? What about siblings and birth order?

What is your favourite sandwich?

What is your favourite colour?

How would you rate your sex drive on a scale of one to ten?

Are you able to go to sleep with dirty dishes in your sink? Please elaborate.

Have you ever been married?

How long does it take you to empty your suitcase after you get home from a trip? Do you travel light?

I always assumed you did not have children? Do you? What about pets? Is there cat hair in your refrigerator?

Do I win the Erotic Transference Award?

How do you take your coffee? How many cups?

Have you ever enlisted a cleaning service? Would you like to be put on my waiting list?

When you are old, do you envision yourself doing word searches, crossword puzzles, or Sudoku?

When is your birthday?

Did you lie about your age on Bumble?

See you Thursday!

Love, Erica.

Now there is only one more Monday with Vincent. Some of my grieving has been quite professional. There will be one to three more Dear Vincent post and maybe one to two afterwords. In the meantime and forever, you may write to me or imaginary Vincent at the secret address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot).com. Tell us about your  birthday, the dishes in your sink, the cat hair in your refrigerator, and/or your favourite sandwich. Love always, Erica.


This is me reading my teenage memoirs at Grown-ups Read What They Wrote as Kids and maybe one day there will be Grown-ups Read What They Wrote As Cleaners and/or To Their Therapists

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Dear Vincent, The best will be if I heal my knee and maybe also my personality before irreversible climate change sets in.
Dear Vincent, Looks like you got some sun. And maybe also a new shirt.
Dear Vincent, Now you know I have that thing where you love your therapist. 

Sunday, 2 September 2018

Dear Vincent, The best will be if I heal my knee, and maybe also my personality before irreversible climate change sets in.


Dear Vincent,

The best will be if I heal my knee, and maybe also my personality before irreversible climate change sets in. Hopefully, that will leave enough time for the low-grade literary masterpiece, and the Oprah Projects too.

Today my Pragmatic and Optimistic Darling Bestie gave me bodywork in exchange for when I cleaned her house for free during the second week of July when I was relatively underemployed. 

It seems the part of me that wants to kill myself is at the back of my right rib cage, just behind my liver. Maybe it’s too much trail mix and/or maybe some kind of detox tea will fix it. Inside my shoulders and chest, I am crying and also worried I am dying of the inflamed mole that sits around my sacrum and lowest vertebrae. If I die of the inflamed mole, it will be all my fault for not washing the pesticides off of the grapes, and for being such a bad sleeper, and pathologically accommodating. Life causes a lot of damage and healing takes a really, really long time. I wonder where all your sadness is. 

Love Erica.


Dear Vincent,

Dr. Joel does not think I meet the criteria for borderline personality disorder. Clap loud. He also said it does not sound like I ever found myself. I am not sure where else to look, and I said this to Dr. Joel. The recommendation is to stop seeing you within a few months and try therapy with someone else, either a sliding scale option or subsidized by my father. Dr. Joel said that therapy is not about drying your tears but figuring out what is wrong and acting on it. He asked if I was an empty person, and I said I never understand what that means. 

Simon, my dead ex-ex (ex-point five?) boyfriend who jumped off a building is not quite famous for saying, “I wonder what I’d be like if, like you, I’d been sent to psychologists from the age of eleven. If a bunch of people had played around in my head the way children play in the bathtub-I think that by now I would have died ten times already. I’ve already died ten times anyways.”

The bathtub analogy is not spectacular in English. Do you think it works better in French? Sometimes I feel like I’ve died seven times before breakfast. 

I know we can’t date, but there’s a nearby blood donor clinic on Thursday. Wanna give blood platonically? Just kidding. I recently menstruated most of my blood away anyways. 

Thanks for all the times you’ve dried my tears. 

Love, Erica. 


Dear Vincent,

I forgot to say that Dr Joel calls friends with benefits, friends with privileges. I think that was my favourite thing about him. When he stood up, it looked like he was still sitting in a chair. 

Basically what he said was, get your fucking shit together. In my life whenever someone has told me this, I freeze or sob momentarily, or for weeks, then I might make some vague progress, but often whatever I come up with entails some sort of half assed coasting. And so I confirm how much I suck, although to cut myself a break, most people’s lives end up following some kind of sad and generic default setting. 

The next thing I might write on my wall could be, Fuck Mental Health. I appreciate your relative optimism, but this may very well be my sad and generic default setting.

All that’s left to try is lifting weights, cervical orgasms, improved lunch strategies, and perhaps a more well-paying and/or prestigious job that doesn’t involve cleaning up other people’s messes. Though as you must know, most jobs entail cleaning up other people’s messes. One way or another. The last thing I might like to try is learning how to skateboard. I have a sexy new compression sleeve for my knee. See you tomorrow. 

Love, Erica.

Housemaid’s Knee, Clap Loud if You Believe in Borderline Personality Disorder
Friday, August 17, 2018

Dear Everybody,

Vincent could not come to the blood donor clinic. He said that blood made him uncomfortable, and so I apologized for discussing menstruation so extensively in so many of our sessions, and he forgave me. The blood donor clinic was full. They gave me some water that came in a plastic bottle which innovative entrepreneurs can someday turn into fancy yoga pants.  

Vincent and I will see each other again on Thursday, September 6, and then one more time on Monday, September 17. After that, it will be Mondays without Vincent forever, unless Vincent decides to make an unlikely  generous contribution to a beautiful blogging fairy tale, or to art.

On my way home from the blood donor clinic, I wept delicately on one park bench, and in one alley.

Last November I thought maybe I could walk across Canada for mental health the year I turned 33, but then I started micro-dosing on mushrooms, and then I became a low-grade famous cleaning lady, and I got distracted, and now I have what’s called, Housemaid’s Knee. Life plans always seem to stress me out or elude me. I will be 33 on October 29. My favourite things to do are to walk and to talk and write letters. My favourite things to buy are laundry soap, dish soap, and vinegar.

This morning I woke up at 2:20 a.m. Six hours later, I was still awake, and I wrote the names of The Beautiful Dead in smelly markers on the wall underneath my mildly distorted foot whose chronic toenail fungus is not illustrated. The names of the beautiful dead sprawl over to underneath my highly disproportionate right leg, and symbolic pelvis and Vincent’s quote, “I’ve heard worse.” Everybody likes Vincent’s sentence the best. Sentences that start with everybody are my favourite. Both of these sentences are written on the wall, beneath my highly disproportionate right leg, and symbolic pelvis, and Vincent’s quote, “I’ve heard worse.”

At 8:47 a.m. I left to clean the Self-Mutilating Parrot Family’s house. Everybody knows their parrot now flies free in a refuge in Oka. Or else it is dead with the rest of the Beautiful Dead. Either way, the shit on the walls is long gone.  

Vincent said that my love for him was presenting a challenge to his narcissism, both professionally and as a person, a person I only know eleven to thirteen and a half real things about. Vincent says that everybody has narcissism.  

It was the second week in a row that I wept not all that delicately while bending over the Self-Mutilating Parrot Family’s bathtub. I did an excellent job, both on the weeping, and on the bathtub, but then I set off the Jacuzzi function and the bathtub threw up, and I had to clean it twice.

Likely it was better that I ended up keeping all my blood for myself. I needed my blood for the tears and for the bathtub. The second time, I used bubble bath instead of dish soap. The Self-Mutilating Parrot Family never tends to have all that much dish soap. Now their bathtub smells like a baby.

The Beautiful Dead are Simon Girard, Penelope Parkes, Jadwiga Lukasik, Michael Stone, Tolulope llesanmi, Lia Kidner, Yarrow Viets, Doreen Wilson, and possibly the Self-Mutilating Parrot.

Sometimes we are so lucky to weep not all that delicately while bending over some overcommitted and chaotic household’s bathtub at 9:33 on a Friday morning. And sometimes we are not all that lucky.  

Everybody has to dry their own tears sometimes. Everybody has hard days.

Love, Erica.


There will be one to three more Mondays without Vincent posts. Then I'll get to working on the screenplay. Unless Vincent decides to make an unlikely and generous contribution to a beautiful blogging fairytale, or to art. Either way, your letters to Vincent and to me remain forever welcome at the secret address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)come. Everybody has hard days sometimes. Someone is there for you when you feel most alone. Love always, Erica. 

Toilet paper is on sale at Jean Coutu for $3.99.
Sometimes we are so lucky.


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What a Beautiful Face
Dear Vincent, I went on my adventure. Everything is green. I love you.
Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21
Dear Vincent, It used to be that the last time I felt home was in a tiny blue penthouse apartment in Mysore, India on the 10th avenue of the 3rd stage of a neighbourhood called Gokulam in November of 2014.
Dear Vincent, You are not the only person I write letters to.