Dear Vincent, When I get really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me. Or else you.

Dear Vincent,

When I get really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me. Or else you.


Now the decade-long fortnight without you is all over. Another has begun. On Tinder, I have more than fifty matches. Mostly nobody talks to me except every once in a while someone asks me where I bought my banana hat, and how often I wear it. In such cases, I tend to fault them for being unoriginal, and reply nothing 

"Nice bananas."

Today it is October 1st. I was born in October, as were my mother and sister. But they are Libras, a club I never made it into. Recently I dreamt I was meant to assist my mother through her labour and birth. She wished for a VBAC, a Vaginal Birth After Caesarean. Her Caesarean was me. I was late and upside down. Some people say that upside down c-section kids don’t flip because they want to remain closer to the sound of their mother’s heart beat and isn’t that beautiful. When I was born, legend has it that my father turned white as a ghost. Once they told my mother I was fine, she had the sense that now if she were to die, biologically, this would be reasonable, as though her task as a mammal was complete. The three and more decades that followed have contained

Endless quests for keys,

Piano lessons,

Bunion surgery,

Divorce,

Dead goldfish,

Dogs,

Hamsters,

And neighbours.

That mothers drive their children to pet stores to replace their deceased rodents is heroic.

In my dream, I could not find my mother’s birthing room and so I was of no help, and not heroic.

If I were to have a daughter, I’d name her October.

Mostly on Tinder, when I tell people I write letters to my therapist and post them on the Internet, they do not write back. Though one guy who is finding the cure to cancer on government grants did write back, and we ate sandwiches. He said he had to go home shortly after I announced that I was pretty sure I needed to cancel my debut as a nude life-drawing model due to the fact that the organizer was insisting that I show up with an excellent haircut, makeup, and fully shaved. I felt this was oppressive and also refused to consent to naked photos of myself proliferating around the Internet. The gig was only fifty dollars, and I am naked on the Internet in other ways. Perhaps my Cancer Curing Grant Friend felt that my resistance to shaving meant that I had a massive bush, and some people are opposed to such things. Or maybe I was just too tall, and/or talked a little too much about my therapist.

Mood Sports in the days that followed were rather treacherous.

For example, I composed my ex-boyfriend this angsty text message:

“Everything is wonderful but I still hate my life.

Dear the Boatman,

I have had two difficult mornings in a row. This morning I almost called the crisis center but I knew all they would saw was, have breakfast and take a shower. So far I have had breakfast. I did not take a shower yet. My vagina was a bit itchy so I used a syringe to stick some yogurt inside. Now it is coming out in weird disgusting chunks.

When I get really upset, I need to be seen, heard, felt and loved by someone whose dick has been inside of me.  Or else Vincent. As it turns out, none of these people tend to be all that available.

It seems like the greatest gift you can have in life is to not give a shit. You seem to have mastered this well. Perhaps Vincent has too.

How nice for you.

Love, Erica.”

After writing this, I had a shower, called the crisis centre and never ended up pressing send.

The syringe of yogurt up inside your vagina is something I would probably recommend.

I never told you I was looking out my window, but I am. It looks like my landlord has thrown out some houla hoops. One purple, one yellow. Too tiny for an adult. This makes me think of hopscotch which is not quite a sport, but not quite that easy either.


The leaves in my begonia are covered with this chalky white residue which could be from a fungus, or from bugs, or from the trucks in my back alley that deliver boxes of fruit or coat hangers or toilet paper to Parc Avenue shops, or from bird shit, or perhaps my begonia is simply dying.

The Begonia, Pre-Ugly White Residue, Post-Thrive 

Someone on Tinder has broken his ribs in a vineyard. The doctors gave him morphine. As for me, I still haven’t cracked the Abilify.

If I had a daughter, I’d name her October. The next sentence could be, if I had a son, I’d name him Vincent. Except everybody knows I don’t want kids anyways.

See you in a Tuesday or two.

Love, Erica.


You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. The project is called "Mondays without Vincent" and the secret email address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Vincent will be delighted to hear from you. He will write back as soon as he can.

Much love, Erica.

Together at last.


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Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
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Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica)
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