Dear Vincent, Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might just ask if you too are a Scorpio, and if so, is it your birthday.

Dear Vincent,

Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might just ask if you too are a Scorpio, and if so, is it your birthday. Yesterday I got a bit pissed off at my social worker. We were analyzing my answers to a sheet on self-care. I did not score very high on the line about going to a museum or a cultural experience. I do not want to go to a museum or a cultural experience. I want a sustainable sense of relevance and stability, affirmation and orgasms. Also, I want to feel safe.

For homework, the Social Worker told me to make a daily list of three things I am grateful for. A Grat List. Hate that shit. Grat lists make me feel oppressed, and like I am an underachiever. And a terrible person because I am not the single mother of a dying baby with cancer and no legs, and yet still, I seem to suffer.

Last week I saw three professionals regarding my mental health. The Social Worker told me to eat lunch, and generously wrote this down on a post-it note, smiley face and everything. My GP said to focus on protein and the psychiatrist said to do something creative, and that my struggles seem to stem from my personality traits. What do you mean, Dr. Perrier? Once I gain a sustained sense of relevance and stability, affirmation and orgasm, someone should give me 110 dollars an hour to sit in a windowless office and tell people they’re wonderful, and to have a bath, treat themselves to a goldfish, and go to a museum or a cultural experience.

Instead of a Gratitude List, one of my friends recommends a Self-Congratulations List. Items for the Self-Congratulations List equal

Eating something other than Chocolate Covered Almonds for Lunch.

Not Crying when two clients revoke your life purpose and announce that this week is in fact, not a good time for you to wipe the pubes off the sides of their toilets.

Insert something responsible such as invoices, flossing, signing up to pay for electricity and/or purchasing an expensive battery for your smoke alarm nearly two months after you moved into your apartment.

While I was on Prozac, I think I wrote a blog post about the Self-Congratulations List which I referred to as something very frightening and that was the Ta-Dah List.

While I was on Prozac, before it made me twitchy and suicidal, I think I was more grateful, more open to museums and to cultural experiences, less begrudging about taking out the recycling and more pleased with my Self-Congratulations Lists. My personality traits were approximately the same. My boundaries on the internet were approximately the same.

The Social Worker says I put a lot upon my shoulders.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we both ended up being Scorpios, and ran into each other at a museum or a cultural experience?

According to the Tarot cards, I should not send you this email for real, although I always want to. I’ll see you in your windowless office in approximately two hours and forty-five minutes. I’ll be wearing my red raincoat.

Love, Erica.

You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. The project is called "Mondays without Vincent" and the secret email address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)

Vincent will be delighted to hear from you. He will write back as soon as he can.

Much love, Erica.

This photo was taken before I could include "Shower" or "Got Dressed"
 on my Self-Congratulations List

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Three Easy Strategies for Feeling Smug and On Top of Life
Dear Vincent, Can you hold me?
Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.

Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake up

Mourning
Wailing
Yearning
Wake up.


Vincent called me in September.
He sounded
quite sad
on the phone.


I thought,
"A sad therapist.
Well,
this will be easy."


I don't think
I have good
professional boundaries.
I'm also pretty sure
I want to be an artist.


What does it mean
to be an artist?


My goals in life are
long-term sources of intimacy,
long term sources of sex,
a strong mind,
a healed body.
What is a cervical orgasm?


Vincent's office
has no windows.
Hating myself is
part of my charm.


More therapists
than you'd imagine,
are actually
quite sad.
As they say,
this breaks my heart.
(Or maybe I
should become a therapist.)


I wouldn't mind being
a little bit famous
but I like
when life 
is simple.


For example,
I love you.
For example:
she weeps when
he enters her.


Mourning, wailing, yearning, wake up.
I really want people to see me.


My goals in life are
deep love for all my cells,
a cleared and clear and generous heart,
creativity,
service.


The government is always
running out of money.
After our last session
I cried in
the elevator.


All my life I've wished
I was tiny
and adorable.
Oh well.


I think I am tannée
of this eternal vow of poverty.
But I like
when life
is simple.


Last Saturday
I saw Vincent
on the corner
of Beaubien and Boyer Street.

I always wondered
what Vincent did on Saturdays.
He was walking with a small-sized woman
with curly hair.
I was listening to a podcast about orgasmic meditation
and considering how
the recent breakthroughs
in my life
remain
rather tenuous.


Vincent winked and crossed the street.
I went
to the market
to buy apples.


The End.

My friend Jeff
invited me to his birthday party
I was quite pleased with how my outfit turned out.


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The Permafrost is Melting in Siberia
I do not know how to fulfill my enormous potential
Hour of God on a Friday

Cardboard Box

Inhaling chocolate covered pomegranate berries, I watched Michael Stone as he talked on my i-Phone screen and told me about the wise use of sexual energy.

“Sexual energy is not personal,” said Michael Stone. Apparently sexual energy doesn’t belong to anybody. This is an interesting way of looking at it. My sexual energy feels very personal. And if I’m not the one who wants to hump the bed, who is? Michael Stone says that despite living in a world where sex is everywhere, few people are willing to talk about it. I tend to be one of those people. Along with shit, masturbation, and menstruation, sex is one of my favourite topics. 

“You are different from anybody I’ve ever met.” People tell me this all the time. Either the phrase triggers my Special Person Syndrome or it makes me feel uncomfortably odd. How come everybody says that?

Odd? Me?

“Well, you are different from everyone else,” a friend told me over coffee. “Most people have boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I thought. “Should I look into getting some of those?”

 

My 60-year-old Jewish therapist from Westmount used to describe some of my sexual endeavours as “Sport Fucking.” “So you’re just using each other for sex,” she'd say. In English, they call this a Fuck Buddy. My Quebecois roommates call it un ami d’oreiller. A jPillow Friend. Sounds kind of nice.  People say that it is easy to treat your Pillow friends like objects. But I wonder if sometimes it is easier to treat a person like an object within the context of an official relationship. Now that you are MY boyfriend, shouldn’t we have sex whenever I want? 

One Sunday morning last April, the Boatman picked a civil war documentary over having sex with me. He made a valid choice, and yet, it took me about three and a half weeks to get over this. If the Boatman had been a Pillow Friend, I feel like it would have felt less personal. With Pillow Friends and Fuck Buddies, whoever it is has no obligation to you. You have to respect what they’re willing to give or take. Pros and Cons.

Michael Stone says that every sexual relationship builds something, even if you don’t make a baby. What are you building, and with who?

Simon used to say, “We’re not writing a book, we’re writing our lives.” Well, the book is done. He’s dead. I’m not. I love writing letters. It is one of my favourite kinds of writing. As a child, I was an excellent pen pal. So far I have already had at least three romantic relationships that were based almost entirely on writing letters. It is so fun. But sometimes I am too charming, too creative. I send too many locks of hair. (One is far too many.) I also tend to send stickers. Who knew that grown men adore stickers? Me. When I turn thirty, I will stop sending grown men stickers. I will look into getting some boundaries.  

Exciting Whale Stickers


Dollarama Gold

It’s like we can’t get close enough.” In bed, I have noticed that many people say this. Our tummies fuse together. Still we want to be closer. We may as well just write letters because we’ll never get close enough anyways.

 

This is a letter to Simon from “The Little Savage and the Hermit.” I wrote it one third of the way into the book, at which point Simon thought it would be a good idea if we flipped the narrative on its head by turning ourselves into squirrels or airplane seats or something similarly groundbreaking. I didn't turn us into anything and the letter was supposed to help set boundaries. It didn’t exactly work. The Wise Use of Sexual Energy also means treating all beings with dignity. The year or so I had with Simon was not my best era for treating all beings with dignity. Poor Simon got the brunt of it. But he really liked this letter. It is called, “Cardboard Box.”

Cardboard box

Dear Simon,

I am eating salad again.  These days, I am eating a lot of seaweed.  It goes right through me.  I know that you find my digestive system tiresome.  I find it tiresome too.  I’d apologize, but there are more important things to say.

 No self-respecting person would read your last letter, mix gin and energy drinks and then appear at your doorway to fuck.  Turns out I’m not a very self-respecting person. Sure, it counts, even if I was drunk, but it will never happen again.  I’m sorry that I set shitty boundaries and pissed you off.  Now it’s my turn to use Italics. 

             I don’t want to have anything to do with you anymore.  Unless it’s in a letter, I never want to hear from you again.

Perhaps you were trying to inspire me to turn myself into a cardboard box and drastically redirect the narrative.  Not necessary. I am already a cardboard box.  I always have been.  The reason I didn’t want to continue the narrative was...  I can’t tell you, it’s against the rules.  Too self-absorbed.  So you don't get to hear the story about the park bench and the man with the hole in his liver.  This summer, emotionally dependent guys came in packages of two, and my solution was to throw both of them out at the same time.

I saw a picture of you on Facebook with Marcel, the man who drives a power wheelchair who I got you a job with. Marcel's giving you a low five.  He looks a little dazed and delirious. I can tell he loves having you on his team.  Did you coordinate your black shirts and blue pants on purpose?  Your smile is large and goofy and ridiculous and your eyes are bright.  You have a long beard, as though for the last two weeks you’ve rolled out of bed without having time to do anything except run to the metro to get happy with Marcel.  I’m glad I gave you that job, even though now I’m financially desperate and essentially unemployed.  My job at the swimming pool has been put on hold due to a leak.  Throughout my frantic job hunt, I’ve applied for a few adult gigs on Craigslist. Dominatrix, Threesome, Cleaning Lady in Lingerie.  I don’t own any lingerie. Only yoga clothes.  The Threesome man just got back to me.  He asked if I had a friend who could join us.  No, I don’t.  No friend.  No friends.

I’ve been teaching yoga to weightlifters.  That’s probably about all you want to know about that.  I also wrote some articles for a website that would pay me if enough people read my stuff, but not enough people do.

My last bad news is I’m seeing a new shrink.  He says I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Madonna Whore Complex and Gifted Child Syndrome.  I sort of hate him so I drink vodka cocktails out of Mason jars before our sessions.  That’s the good news.  Also, I am about to roll up my duvet and hump it.  But before I do that, I want to make amends.  You’re probably right that it’s best we never see or hear from each other ever again, except for in letters.  That said, I don’t want to be that girl you never talk to anymore, who you pretend not to see when you run into her on the street.  I don’t believe in that.  I never want to be that girl, and you’re not that guy for me.  If I ever see you again, I will smile and say hello.   

Erica.

The End.
Besides exciting whale stickers, Dollarama has all kinds of titillating outlets for your sexual energy.

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