Ecstatic Adventures of the Exuberant Bodhisattva: Dear Vincent, I forgave myself for not being Lena Dunham.

Dear Vincent,

I have a saying that goes, Aren’t professional boundaries a bummer.

Also, Most people’s lives are a total disaster. Their lives and their Tupperware drawers and the corner at the side of their beds.

Also, the permafrost is melting in Siberia.

Years ago, I forgave myself for not being Margaret Atwood. Today I am forgiving myself for not being Lena Dunham. I always thought I’d excel at being a Lena Dunham Sort of Person. But listening to an interview, it all sounds rather strenuous. She just detoxed from benzos, and she had to get a hysterectomy. Beyond cervical orgasms, I don’t have much need for my uterus, and yet, I’m glad I still have one.

So I don’t get to be Margaret Atwood, or Lena Dunham, or have a cervical orgasm, and I’m forgiven.

Photo Credit equals The New York Times.
Thanks a bunch NYT!

Likely your professional boundaries are
More of a bummer
than mine.

The other thing I want to say is, Lena Dunham named her uterus Judy.

One brutal Tuesday morning last February, I decided I wanted to cut my life off at 39 years, 4 months and 19 days. But now I’ve decided I’d like to be alive when Oprah dies. This might be hard, since I could see Oprah sticking herself in a freezer, to be awoken in the year 2222. Her century-long dreams will be a deep green regal forest, and when she opens her eyes, she’ll feel so grateful, and she’ll know so many things for sure.

Everything is Green. Love, Oprah
Photo Credit equals the Oprah Magazine, as shown in eonline.com.
Gee thanks!

"Erica," says Margaret Atwood. "Where are you?"

It’s 6:30 a.m. on Sunday, November 4, 2018. Almost like I’m a normal person, I slept in until 6:13, even though it was Daylight Savings day. Fall Back. The star of my life’s most beautiful blogging fairy tale used to hate that. I’m in the middle of taking a shit. On the stove, the espresso pot is starting to bubble, and then off goes the smoke alarm. All my neighbours likely hate me. After the espresso, I bailed on my exercise routine, and my thighs seemed 1.5 cm. too wide on either side. The menstruation app announced the end of my fertile window. It was a dramatic Sunday morning rage, and I felt like I’d wasted the day.

When I have insomnia, sometimes I listen to Oprah, and this is only a mildly embarrassing thing to say, and I’m still saying it. I always remember the episode when Elizabeth Gilbert told Oprah that every day, she gives herself a quest. For example, writing down the story of her life onto six index cards, or dragging herself out of the house and not coming home until she finds something beautiful and one time she saw a parade of elephants, maybe in front of the bank. She thought this was beautiful, not thinking of how much elephants in America tend to suffer.

Anyways, my Sunday, November 4th quest was going to be

1) Buy an irresponsible lunch at the bulk food store.
2) Make an offering out of the massive hardened plasticene erect dick I’d made at Authentic Movement Class.
3) Maybe try and buy jeggings since mine have holes in the pockets and holes in the crotch.

In fact, the massive hardened plasticene dick did not get born at Authentic Movement Class.
In the beginning, the plasticene transformed from a sharp brown rectangular prism, into a non-descript blob, interspersed with little dents from my fingernails. Our Authentic Movement teacher always tells us, Soyez les cadeaux que vous êtes, which means, be the gifts that you are, and she encouraged us to make a spontaneous sentence to go with our plasticene.

My spontaneous sentence was,
Most people, if they were me, would have given up by now.
I did not exactly mean this about the plasticene. I meant giving up about everything else. I did not give up on my plasticene.

When I got home, I moulded the generic non-descript blob of plasticene into a massive and exquisite erect penis, which stood next to a vagina type fold that got cradled inside a soothing-looking canoe-shaped brown bowl. All of this hardened into something vaguely permanent.

Now I am trying to remember what happened to the vagina type fold that got cradled inside a soothing-looking canoe-shaped brown bowl. There was no sentence to go with it. It was supposed to symbolize me feeling cradled and held and safe. I can’t remember what I did with it.

As for the massive erect cock, I’d wrapped it in tissue paper and placed it in a small silver Simon’s bag from when I bought all brand new underwear, and the dick was ready for its perfect offering, and the bag rested at the bottom of my living room closet which is vaguely and scandalously unruly.

Preparing for my Sunday, November 4th quest, I opened the Simon’s bag and beheld, the massive cock had broken in two. Now the offering would not be quite as perfect or as exquisite. Still, I remained committed to my quest.

As fate would have it, on Saturday, November 3rd, I had about 45 too many minutes to myself which led me to Google your name, plus the street my friend said you lived on according to reliable and top-secret sources.

As fate would have it, Google had an address to go with the Vincent!

The address did not match the neighbourhood my friend said you lived in. She was kind and wise enough not to give me the exact number. But I decided that just in case, after my irresponsible bulk food store lunch, I would drag ass to the house with the silver Simon’s bag and the broken and massive

My responsible bulk food store lunch was soothing small plastic bags full of chocolate covered strawberries and almonds, unsalted but roasted no-peanut mixed nuts, and those weird corn chippy flaxseed crackers that likely cause immense turmoil to all your estrogen levels.

The irresponsible bulk food store lunch cost five dollars and 35 cents and took me about three and a half minutes to eat.

The Vincent House was just south of Jean Talon and east of the market, and not on the sunny side of the street. With aspirations of discretion, I crossed to the sunny side and looked up to the second floor of the shaded brick duplex.

Against vast odds, the door opened! I hoped hard, but it was not you. The Other Vincent was taller, younger without a beard and with a tiny girlfriend. Other Vincent and Tiny Girlfriend walked down the stairs and over to a small grey Honda, and drove away. I laughed pretty hard for a pretty sad day, and did not leave the broken dick there.

You must be so pleased that I forgave myself for not being Lena Dunham.
My friend Caroline’s reading a book called Zapped, and the book says all the Wifi is fucking up everyone’s sperm count, and essentially we’re all getting microwaved.

Faithful to my quest, I walked approximately 5.2 km all the way down to the Bay, and the jeggings did not look spectacular, but I still bought them. Two days later, I would exchange them, and struggle to make peace with the way my thighs appeared wrapped up inside of them, and by the time I made this peace, they ripped in the crotch, and I might spend all of November buying jeggings and then, taking them back.

I left the big broken dick on a bench underneath a burgundy umbrella somewhere near Place des Arts metro. The broken dick could be called,

What is your low-grade calling? Where is your testosterone?
Or else,
Some undying love is better off living a short life.

I have a saying that goes, You can’t fuck up a Sunday morning.
Also, The more sane I feel, the more my spine seems crooked.
Also, You’re so beautiful. Hating yourself is so stupid.

Love, Erica.

So Mondays without Vincent is having a little reprise. Please feel free to send your own imaginary letters to Vincent or to me at ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.