Dear Vincent, It is the new moon, and I'm pretty sure I'm ovulating

Dear Vincent,

It is the new moon, and I’m pretty sure I’m ovulating.

They say the smell of burning is a sign you’re having a stroke, but it can also be a sign of poor stove top and/or toaster hygiene. Death is certain, its time is uncertain, why do I still eat beans? And why did I text the Married Man on Mother’s Day?

Because every sad Married Man needs a darling Happy Mother’s Day from a long ago, faraway, once upon a time fuck who continues to love him in a narcissistic and compartmentalized way.

Married Man has the same old Failed Oprah Project, Dying of Loneliness, Ridiculously Crazy Busy Angst as usual.

This weekend I was not Ridiculously Crazy Busy, and I remedied my Failed Oprah Project and my Dying of Loneliness Angst by sorting out the highly amateur chaos of my junk drawer and my wine box, which tends to hold mail from the government, and ADHD checklists, and letters from my ten-year-old pen pal who has autism, and bars of soap from my tiny mother who does not know that I find the way bar soap melts on the side of the sink or the bathtub to be rather and deeply upsetting. And I recycled the abnormal psychology text book which I found in a plastic bag that was getting wet in front of a dumpster on my way home from dropping off my tiny mother at the train station. And I cleaned my fridge and freezer that contain about seven food items, plus ketchup, and I wiped down the shelf that hold my empty coconut oil jars, and emptied the crumbs of my toaster that would and will throw up bread forever, even though I always forget to buy bread and only tend to eat it every six to nine and half days. 

I consoled the Married Man with the theory that everyone in their thirties is alone every Saturday night, sorting their Mason Jars and watching Youtube videos about attachment trauma and dentist-free dental hygiene. 

Re: The Mason Jars, My relatively famous sister is a case in point.

Sentences that start with Everyone are so easy, and kind of my favourite

The Youtube video about dentist-free dental hygiene was a bit of a slog, but I did end up making homemade toothpaste, alone on a Sunday evening. I poured the toothpaste into a jar, and it looked like a moist and chunky brown stool sample. Putting the toothpaste into my mouth reminds me a little bit of cookie dough, and also the questionable mixtures my sister and I used to put together out of everything we could find in the kitchen and the bathroom, and we’d call it a potion and serve it to each other in a mug, and say, “if you loved me, you’d eat this.” My homemade brown stool sample toothpaste tasted like our childhood potions, but minus the orange juice.

As I child, I feel I had more access to orange juice than any other food source. Now I feel totally at peace with the thought of never drinking orange juice, ever again.

 

Stool Sample Toothpaste + Sister and Me at the Height of Our Potion Making and Exceptional Fashion Sense Era.

The Married Man did not ask me how I made the toothpaste. If anyone is wondering, I made it out of clay, and diatomaceous earth, which is the hippie’s defence against bed bugs, plus a few other things I could find in the kitchen, and this did not include orange juice.

The last thing I texted the Married Man was, I don’t see how what I just made is actually toothpaste.

I feel this is a reasonable ending.

Happy New Moon!

Love, Erica.

Do not die of Loneliness! Me and Imaginary Vincent would love to hear from you! Send your letters to the secret address, ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Do not die of loneliness!


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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, 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, Looks like you got some sun.