I ended things with my illicit and elusive texting
boyfriend. I am feeling a great loss. Folks, these are our times. Grown-ups mourn deeply for their canned virtual pen pals.
30 is the new seventeen and a half.
L-O-Fucking-L. Except I cry the massive tears.
“Everything alright?” my roommate asked.
Everything was not alright. Now there was nowhere to send my ecstatic sentences about emollient and foaming skin creams, bald baristas, melatonin hangovers, performative grilled cheese sandwiches and the saggy jeggings I wore to Butt Club. Who else would make out with me on the monkey bars every three to seven weeks?
Last September, when I began to grace the Mental Health Spectrum with my presence, I took up crying in Montreal alleyways.
But now I live in Mile End. The neighbourhood is way too cool for crying in alleys. Everyone is so busy and cool with their Mercedes and Espressos, their Wedgie Jeans and their Kale Salads.
“I’m good, but I’ve just been so busy.” That’s all anyone ever says. They’re so fucking busy. And tired. Nobody cries in the Mile End.
“That’s not true,” said my roommate. “Mile End is the perfect place for crying. Go ahead. Give Mile End a good cry.”
“I think you could make crying in alleys cool,” the Boatman told me after learning of my devastating break-up. I gave it a go.
Performative Crying in Alleys, by Erica J. Schmidt
In the garbage on St. Dominique street, I found a roll of
sparkly wrapping paper. Now there will be glitter everywhere forever. Some of
the paper had gross brown stains on it, so I ripped that part off. The way the
paper fell, it kind of looked like a flag. My illicit and elusive texting
boyfriend used to always wave virtual Erica flags for me. You’d think that a
glittery flag would be better than a virtual flag, but within minutes, my face
and hands were covered with glitter. Assaulted by sparkles and streaky streamy
tears. I went to Clark Park to see if I could dump the glittery flag onto some
of my friends’ children.
“No way is that thing going anywhere near my house,” said my friend. Nobody else wanted it.
I put the glittery flag in the Clark Park garbage can. That was the end of my performance.
The End.
30 is the new seventeen and a half.
L-O-Fucking-L. Except I cry the massive tears.
“Everything alright?” my roommate asked.
Everything was not alright. Now there was nowhere to send my ecstatic sentences about emollient and foaming skin creams, bald baristas, melatonin hangovers, performative grilled cheese sandwiches and the saggy jeggings I wore to Butt Club. Who else would make out with me on the monkey bars every three to seven weeks?
Last September, when I began to grace the Mental Health Spectrum with my presence, I took up crying in Montreal alleyways.
But now I live in Mile End. The neighbourhood is way too cool for crying in alleys. Everyone is so busy and cool with their Mercedes and Espressos, their Wedgie Jeans and their Kale Salads.
“I’m good, but I’ve just been so busy.” That’s all anyone ever says. They’re so fucking busy. And tired. Nobody cries in the Mile End.
“That’s not true,” said my roommate. “Mile End is the perfect place for crying. Go ahead. Give Mile End a good cry.”
“I think you could make crying in alleys cool,” the Boatman told me after learning of my devastating break-up. I gave it a go.
Performative Crying in Alleys, by Erica J. Schmidt
“No way is that thing going anywhere near my house,” said my friend. Nobody else wanted it.
I put the glittery flag in the Clark Park garbage can. That was the end of my performance.
The End.
Finally I finished the 5-Day Creative Recovery Challenge.
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