Dear Vincent, Elizabeth Gilbert says that, every time you have sex with someone, some small part of you dies.

Dear Vincent,

Elizabeth Gilbert says that, every time you have sex with someone, some small part of you dies. I always hope the part of me that will die, will be the most terrible part. The part I can’t stand.

The night before the last time, I had to say good-bye,

I sat on the ledge of my bathtub, and washed my feet, and suddenly I saw the most deeply upsetting stain on the under front rim of my toilet. And felt baffled and horrified that I had never noticed this before, and also distraught at the thought that perhaps all of my cleaning clients are currently enduring this tragic toilet situation.

In the middle of the night, I woke up quite hungry,

and concerned about the toilet, and saying good-bye,

and being alone,

and I considered various new and optimistic morning routines I could take up to fill my life with hope.

For example,

figuring out how to orgasm without humping the duvet, or my sleeping bag, or someone's leg.

My favourite clichés are,

The heavens parting

In the blink of an eye

Over the moon

The ends of the earth,

And that thing you have when you love your therapist.

When the long goodbye was over, I walked up my fire escape, wept

with reasonably impressive delicateness,

and then
went straight to scrubbing

the horrifying toilet stain,

and this had very minimal success.

A robot on Youtube recommended lemon and vinegar, a pumice stone, water-based sand paper, Coca-cola,

and always finish off with a mountain of vinegar and baking soda.

I embarked upon a new and optimistic morning routine, I will take up to fill my life with hope.

And this had very moderate success.

Now I am washing my sheets.

Clichés I hate are,

Throwing the baby out with bathwater

(probably this took me

at least twelve years

to understand, and who would bother with that anyways),

the straw that broke the camel’s back

(this always makes me think of plastic straws you drank your chocolate milk with when you were a kid, and now everyone is shunning the plastic straws because the seagulls are choking and because plastic continents are forming in the middle of all the other continents),

and

you need put your oxygen mask on first, before you can help anyone else. Because in pretty much every situation besides a sinking airplane, you will preserve your useful consciousness for more than 18 seconds if you think of someone else before yourself.

Whenever I have sex, I always hope that the part of me that will die
will be the most terrible part.
The part I can't stand.
It occurred to me that perhaps if I say goodbye to three or five or seven more people, it might make me ready to say goodbye to you.

Love, Erica.


Emails to me, or to Imaginary Vincent are graciously received at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Be a Humanizing Force.



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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, I went on my adventure. Everything is green. I love you.

Dear Vincent, Some other Vincent coerced me into a blow job.