Dear Vincent, The Prize is the Rest of Your Life.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

Subject: The Prize is the Rest of your life.

Dear Vincent, 

So guess what? I found my cervix! Also found you on Facebook. Nice (dot, dot dot, In case you're wondering, I wouldn't necessarily not date someone who curled, lawnbowled and/or go-karted)

Never would have guessed your name though I'm sure in real life
(dot, dot, dot. 
One of the many problems with 
Professional Boundaries is
They don't tend to roll off the tongue.)
I suppose PC has never been your thing. 
"40 is the new 30! And Down Syndrome kids are so cute, right?" 
(dot, dot, dot. Yah, he really said this. Rolled right off his tongue.)

Lucky for you, your girlfriend looks like she’s very youthful! And such a glorious high achiever! Hope she has fun with the 
(dot, dot, dot… let’s just pretend she’s off to save the manatees somewhere boring like Florida). There’s nothing like when your dreams come true. 

Too bad your époque baveuse is already over. Seems a little premature.  
(dot, dot, dot. You can say a slug is a bête baveuse and this means they are a slimy creature. 
dot, dot, dot. 
Yah, ten minutes before you promise yourself you’ll block somebody on Facebook forever, the best is to first stalk every available detail of their profile so you don’t miss any mourning of any bygone kinky era that stroking an exotic animal’s ass in some beautiful exotic place seems to evoke. And you don’t want to miss any girlfriends either, especially the ones who evoke your deep seated Mammoth Complex. Thoroughly peruse all the tiny girlfriends, from exotic places, or else ultra overachievers from nearby.)

Benjamin Hunting says that the cervix leads to Narnia. Your Facebook profile led me to paint over all of the Vincents on my wall and can all this self-inflicted torture.  

The only Vincent left on the wall is, Two things I really believe in are Deep Cleans and Mondays without Vincent. Whatever that means. 

One time, I wrote a deeply terrible and embarrassing poem called, 
I cave in and pretend I’m fucking Vincent,  
and one of the most embarrassing parts is, 
"Professionals Boundaries mean that 
I love you is pathology. 
You get all the money. 
And I get all the shame." 

The sad and bitter part of me wants to say, DEAR VINCENT, HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE WHITE MAN IN THE ROOM WITH ALL THE POWER AND ALL THE MONEY? 

In fact I doubt the CLSC gives all that much money. 
In fact, I get all the power, since I get all the words. 
In fact, I don’t have that many more words to say except maybe everyone can calm down about borderline personality disorders. 

And I think the way the crush got handled was a mess but if I were you, I’d follow my lead and lovingly forgive yourself. I lovingly forgive you, and will probably go on to blame myself on the whole thing every other Tuesday until it does not matter anymore. 

Oh yah, and wash your lunch dishes and dust your filing cabinet and the poor goddamn headless wooden lady statue! For fuck’s sake! I still feel grateful for what you gave me, even if I never turn it into a brilliant screenplay, and even if I continue to struggle with lunch choices and sleeping and fulfilling my enormous potential for the rest of my life. I am sure I will always remember and cherish the many times I felt safe and seen in your windowless office, plus the satisfying smirks and laughter.  
And I’ll miss these fucking letters. I guess they were more for me than they were for you. And maybe also for Benjamin Hunting who loved my sentence, My greatest gift is finding the trail of infinite grief and following it for infinity, but I thought it was too cheesy. 

Letting go is no joke. I keep whining that I want a prize. At least everybody knows I win for the Best Erotic Transference on the Internet. 

Plus Benjamin Hunting says, “The prize is the rest of your life.” And my époque baveuse has barely just begun. 

Love you, good-bye, Erica. 

BAM! 

The Prize is the Rest of Your Life.

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Dear Vincent, All your sadness is in your lungs. Also the World is a Heartbreaker. 

Dear Vincent, You are not the only person I write letters to. 

Dear Vincent, Now you know I have that thing where you love your therapist.

Dear Vincent, You are not the only person I write letters to.

Dear Vincent,

You are not the only person I write letters to. Everything I buy comes wrapped in plastic, and sometimes at night, I hide spoons and forks and knives inside my freezer so I do not have to wash them.

Love, Erica.

Dear My Cool Friend Fern,

I am sitting in a bathtub without water and brushing my teeth without water and now without hands, and I am remembering when you used to have your office on top of the washing machine in the upstairs bathroom in Saint Henri. A couple months ago, I started to make homemade clay toothpaste because a right bottom molar hurt and I can only afford the dentist in India. The toothpaste is in a jar and looks like a pile of dark brown shit, and an excess of baking soda causes my tongue to burn. This morning I cannot cope with the burning and the brown specks that end up everywhere, and so I am using the last of my Arm and Hammer, and the bristles in my toothbrush go every which way and the pink plastic on the back of the head is coming off since I often stick my toothbrush in my mouth and bite down on it, hard. This morning the crisis centre counsellor said to try and relax and think more positively and maybe try some activities to make me feel good and that she had to hang up, but she wished me a good day. My right knee is kind of swollen which makes it uncomfortable to kneel, and my bathtub is not embarrassing but it could be more immaculate considering that I am becoming an almost famous cleaning lady.

Love, Erica.

Fern wrote back with the suggestion that I set an alarm on my phone five times a day to remind me that nobody is coming to save me. On Thursday, July 26, 2018, five times per day, my phone emphatically reminded me that,

There is no prize.

You don’t need saving.

Fuck most of it.

There is no prize.

The next day was Friday, July 27, 2018, some kind of full moon and lunar eclipse, and I walked five km with a swollen knee all the way to the second floor of the Greyhound Bus Station to see my doctor. On my i-phone, I’d prepared a less emphatic list about my swollen knee, my borderline personality disorder, my lifelong toenail fungus, the occasional hemorrhoid, and the inflamed mole just above my sacrum which could have cancer but is more likely just inflamed due to rolling around on my floor and rubbing coconut oil into it too aggressively.

“Dr. Hamel n’est pas ici aujourd’hui,” said the receptionist.

Turns out I was an entire month too early.  Dr. Hamel was on vacation, like pretty much everyone else in the city, and once again my life proved itself to be one futile endeavour to another. I melted down hard as I hid behind the curtain in the photo booth in the bus station lobby downstairs. Sobbing, I wacked my face over and over again, where last week’s black eye was only just starting to fade.  I did not pay five dollars to take four tiny photos of my tragic and swollen and vaguely bruised face. The photos are digital and in colour, and thus not as charming as they used to be.

Fuck all of it, I thought. Someone can fucking come and save me. I don’t need the Instagram points, or any of the points. 

And I wandered south of the bus station where people and police frolicked in les Jardins Gamelins, and I scanned the scene for some dead beat who might have opioids.

“Où est le fentanyl?” I imagined calling out deliriously. Where the fuck are all the drugs?

Back at the bus station, I stood in front of the Enterprise rent-a-car booth where all the employees also seemed to be on vacation. In fact, I am not an excellent driver. In fact, I am terrible.

"What happened?" asked some middle-aged man, broad and balding and perplexed. "Why a woman so beautiful so sad?"

As though when I am slightly older, and slightly uglier, I will have every reason to be miserable.

My phone rang, and my friend with a regal name and a relatively sane balance between beautiful dreams and wise pragmatism called and invited me over to her semi-fancy loft in the Old Port. Travelling farmers from Airbnb were coming to rent for the weekend. With noticeable vigour, I scrubbed my friend’s dishes and stove top, plus the ledge where all the spice bottles vomit paprika and curry dust. Then my friend with a regal name and a relatively sane balance between beautiful dreams and wise pragmatism took me out for sushi, and she drove me all the way home, and she fucking saved my life.

Dear Sorrowful Simon, (not to be confused with Simon the Hermit who jumped off Le Tadoussac to his death on January 4, 2015)

Last Saturday, after some plans fell through, I walked all the way to Verdun without my phone. My goal was to swim, though I had zero opposition to  dying at any point along the journey. But the more people I passed, couples in particular, the more I didn’t need my lives to be theirs, or my life to be over. I was not suddenly fueled with the will to live, but I had the vague sense that my life was just as dull and just as pleasant as everyone else’s. When I got to Verdun, I swam up the weak rapids and coasted back down three times. Some old couple stood in the middle of the river and yelled back and forth to each other, even though their faces were less than a foot apart.

“Il y a une autre nageuse,” the man exclaimed excitedly.

Out of the water, I walked along the shoreline in my red polyester two-pieced speedo. The bathing suit chafed my inner thighs since despite extensive exercise and frequently flakey lunches, I do not have a thigh gap. Oh well, what the hell. And I climbed up the riverbank, and came upon some strangers’ wedding party where everyone looked hot and overdressed, anxious to get the pictures over with, and possibly also envious of my shoelessness and red bathing suit.  And as I felt the grass beneath my feet, it seemed perfectly valid to take the metro home, and eat a cheeseburger while reading a novel about rich families in New England.

Love, Erica.

And the same red bathing suit crashes a wedding in India.
Arombol Beach, Goa

Dear Vincent,

On my way to see you on Monday, July 30, 2018, a man rushed by me on Beaubien Street, and the man was carrying a sandwich in a plastic triangular box, and it’s possible the sandwich was made with a croissant, but it didn’t not look particularly delicious. To drink, the man had some Gingerale, and as he charged around me on the sidewalk he said,

“Ready to buy a lake house and get out of here.

Work, work, work, work, work, work, work.

I have everything except sanctity.”

Everything except sanctity and a lake house.

Wishing you and all of us, sanctity and a lake house.

Love, Erica.

Dear Tim Ferris,

When I imagine going on your podcast due to some brilliant Oprah Project I finally pulled off, and you ask me, “If you could put anything on a billboard and have millions or even billions of people see it, what would it say?” in fact, I have two answers. In fact, I cannot decide.

The first billboard says,

“Your life is of supreme importance. May you be free of your pain.”

And another one says,

“This is your strange and beautiful life. You can do all sorts of interesting shit. But you don’t have to. Your life does not need to be a spectacular TED talk.”

Sometimes your podcasts make me very tired, but I’d love to see you optimize menstruation.

Love, Erica.

This is your strange and beautiful life.

Dear Vincent,

Last November, soon after my 32nd birthday, I was considering my life goals and potential Oprah Projects, and I wrote this sentence:

Two things I really believe in are

Deep Cleans and Mondays without Vincent.

I always remember this sentence.

Love, Erica.

Interlude from the Self-Mutilating Parrot Family:

The Self-Mutilating Parrot family has guests. Grandmother, Aunt, and the Aunt's daughter, the Blonde Cousin from Australia. Soon it will be the Blonde Cousin’s fifth birthday. Over a breakfast of toast and butter and jam, her mother remarked, wow, that went so fast, and the two of them played a game in the hammock where the Blonde Cousin wrapped herself in the fabric and then emerged out of the crack, as though the hammock were a vagina, or a caesarean incision, and as though the Blonde Cousin were a baby being born. “Mama,” the Blonde Cousin said as she emerged, and her mother said, “You wouldn’t just come out and say that. It took you two years to say Mama. Before that it was always, Dada, Dada, Dada, and I felt so inadequate.”

In case you missed the very old news, the Self-Mutilating Parrot is spending its last days at Oka, and I wish the bird deep sanctity.

Dear Vincent,

What a thrill to run into you on Rue Beaubien, somewhere between St André and St Hubert. You were carrying a paper bag from Jean Coutu, and what a coincidence, I was headed there to, all set to buy deodorant and cinnamon gum so I could carcinogenically freshen up for Butt Club. (For those who wonder, Butt Club equals  a Democratic and sometimes Diplomatic Butt Exercise class in the park, and as fate would have it, it is the most famous poorly attended event I have ever invented, and truly the joy of my life.) Also, I needed to buy rubber gloves for the newest cleaner of my Deep Cleans empire. “Oh,” I said, when I saw you. “I am going there too.” Afterwards, I was rather proud of my very reasonable composure. Kindly, you smiled kindly.  I hope you liked my shirt.

Love, Erica.

It is approximately the one-year anniversary of Mondays without Vincent on the Internet. This is one of my most favourite un-famous things I have ever come up with. Send your emails to Vincent or Erica at the secret address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Your life is of supreme importance. May you be free of your pain. Love, Erica. 

Two things I really believe in are, Deep Cleans and Mondays without Vincent.

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Dear Vincent, Thank you for responding to my hysterical phone call.

Dear Vincent, Now you have three pen pals.

Dear Vincent, Long title about Oprah and her decadent plushy green chairs in the Oprah forest.

Dear Vincent, I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini that was on sale in a basket, 5 for $1, on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon.

Dear Vincent,

I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini that was on sale in a basket, 5 for $1, on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon. Now I am waiting for the flowing brilliance to rush out of my zucchini fucked vagina and reveal my soul’s deepest truth, and it’s possible I am not waiting long enough, and am lazily opting to cop out by revealing vague and unnecessary truths about my ZFV, for you and for the Internet.



The idea for fucking a medium-sized yellow zucchini came from my friend Sexy Motorcycle George who passed through town on Friday, June 29, 2018, Day 1 of a 7-day heat wave, and before we cuddled all night and did not have sex, SMG did his laundry and for some reason the washing machine did not drain and on Monday, July 2, 2018, I waited seven hours for the Elvis Appliance People to come and they did not come, unless they stopped by without calling while I was around the block buying strawberries. The washing machine filled with mildewed SMG rinse water is not my greatest hardship although sometimes I fear that a broken washing machine is the first step to an unforgiving and unrelenting spiral down into dire poverty.

Five yellow biodegradable and compostable dildos for one dollar is truly an excellent deal. Larger and more solid than a cucumber. Not much happens in my dreams about you except that you are riding your bike without a helmet, and in one dream you’d shaved your head which is not a look I’d recommend for you, if you have any choice in the matter, that is to say, if you somehow escape cancer treatment that causes you to lose your hair, slash, if you somehow escape the ordinary and generic balding process.

And yet, whatever happens to your hair, in my dreams or otherwise, my undying love for you does not seem to be living a short life.

Before the century long afternoon waiting for the Elvis friends, I cleaned an Acupuncturist’s condo at the ends of the earth, and in fact it was a lovely and chatty time and I got a latte and $100 and three needles and  a lift home, and all seemed reasonable except that as I was getting ready to head out the Acupuncturist said, you look great, you have really big legs, and then the Acupuncturist went on to say something about how deranged everyone who wants anorexic legs is, and instead of my agreeing about how deranged everyone is, a Solid Fat Day ensued and I wondered and still wonder if I am eating too much nut butter and ice cream, though in fact it seems I am not eating quite enough since I periodically wake up at midnight or two a.m. unable to sleep and in need of more cottage cheese and or nut butter and or crackers. 

The morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018 was again somewhat of a Severe Fat Day (in fact, the whole week was a Severe Fat Week), and I felt and feel so heartbroken that after all these years, I can still barely love my thighs and the rest of my cells for two to seven and a half hours per week. If I were a therapist, I would specialize in people who cannot love their thighs and the rest of their cells for much more than two to seven and a half hours per week. It is as guaranteed a business model as wiping the pubes off busy or lazy people's toilets, and far more lucrative. And anyways, the morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018, I only did a reasonable amount of exercise given I would be cleaning for six to seven hours, and I sobbed profoundly, however the noise and the duration were both moderate, and I arranged for a reasonably responsible breakfast and lunch. The truth is my thighs are the best I can do. 

Deep love to your thighs and to everyone else's,

Erica. 

Erica and Imaginary Vincent welcome your emails at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

My thighs are the best I can do

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

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

Dear Vincent, How is your headstand going?

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.