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

Dear Vincent,

It seems no matter who I’m having sex with, I ugly cry every other time. Toronto was quite fun. I bought three pairs of shoes for ninety-nine dollars, and got to ejaculate on my sister’s living room floor. It was my birthday and I was trying on blue spandex and silver sequins with the Dead Inside Man. What a gift. I always like to say, never underestimate the powers of a good, hard fuck from behind. And/or, new shoes.

Thank you for trying to put me on the Gazette Fundraiser Poor People List. I think I am making myself out to be a more destitute and pathetic creature than I actually am. In fact, my couch is very large and very beautiful. And I have a washing machine, an RRSP, organic apple cider vinegar, no roommates, and now, new shoes. If you really want to help me, then accept me into your private practice, and just take my money. Or else can this whole borderline personality thing and take me out for a sandwich.

Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I can’t believe you said that you’d rather read Winston Churchill’s memoirs rather than my own teenage memoirs, since unlike Churchill, I did not win the Nobel Prize. Churchill’s memoirs contain no rainbows. I heard he liked to take naps, and that he was an alcoholic. And depressed. Oh Winston. 

Glimpses of My Teenage Memoirs.

These days, people are saying the era of the personal essay - about when the gynecologist found a hair ball in your vagina - is coming to an end.

Before our last appointment, I went to the thrift store at Plaza St-Hubert, all bubbly that soon I would see you, and surely we would laugh and bask in the optimistic email I had sent you in real life. About my new shoes, cheese curds, chocolate covered almonds, surviving two consecutive family weekends with flying colours, and the good hard fucks from behind. At the thrift store, I like to look at baby clothes, seven-dollar pants, and ugly mugs. If ever beyond these imaginary letters to you, I end up writing my adult memoirs, I should devote a whole chapter to ugly mugs. This week, the St Hubert Renaissance Ugly Mug Winners were the Albert Mug and the Lorraine Mug. Both mugs are inscribed in big black serif letters with their respective names. The Albert Mug pictures the Mayflower at sea, while the Lorraine mug has relatively generic red and yellow flowers on it which matched Lorraine's name perfectly. I laughed profusely in the ugly mug aisle, imagining giving you the Albert mug as a gift, even though your name is not Albert. You wouldn’t have loved the Albert mug at all.

Oh, Albert. Oh, Lorraine.

When I saw, you didn’t mention the shoes, or the hard fucks in my email, and so I assumed you hadn’t read it or else were choosing to ignore it and this made me feel rather awkward, and later very devastated. I’d prepared a show and tell session, and showed you a pile of letters from 1994, the peak of my life when I’d written to my grandparents every single day for a whole year. All the envelopes were covered in rainbows. I wanted to show you what a beautiful dork I used to be.

Envelopes from 1994, back when I used to be a darling

All my life I’ve given imaginary men all the power to have all the answers. All the power, and all the ugly mugs. In real life, the imaginary men don’t even read your emails. In real life, the imaginary men do not meet your needs at all. You have no idea what a wonderful imaginary friend you used to be. Oh well. Now I know you used to play the violin, and then the bass. This is mildly interesting, though some people say that woodwinds and brass players are better kissers. I used to play trombone.

You told me that although I am good at recognizing patterns and stats, I should not to quantify my sex life with fifty percent ugly cries since this might be setting myself up for inevitable meltdowns. You mean well, just like you meant well when you tried to put me on the Poor Person Gazette Christmas Fundraiser List. In other stats, therapy feels like kind of a performance and almost a date. It’s a fucking head trip that seems to cause hysteria, every other time. I don’t believe in Borderline Personality Disorder. I think I might have to finish this memoir, Mondays without Vincent sort of soon. This makes me feel really sad. Next time I might tell you that I have a pretty big crush on you, and this could be a problem. Or else I might just ask you if you still play the bass, and if you’re in a band, and if so, what’s your band’s name, and do you ever sing.

Love, Erica.

Writing to Vincent is healing, but if you want an answer, you should write to me. As fate would have it, Vincent is awfully busy, and I am a much better pen pal, even though I did not win a Nobel prize, or go to grad school. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85 (at) gmail (dot) com. I would love to hear from you and will write back as soon as I can. Love, Erica.

I wish.


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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.
Yours til ekam inhales.
Dear Vincent. Can you hold me?