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, It is Mental Health Awareness Week and now I am going on 33 years old and just about two decades striving to earn my Mental Health Certificate, or, even better, my Mental Health Prize

Dear Vincent,

It is Mental Health Awareness Week and now I am going on 33 years old and just about two decades striving to earn my Mental Health Certificate, or, even better, my Mental Health Prize. Some might say these perpetual and frequently neurotic efforts have made me far too obsessed with myself and quite frequently, I would tend to agree. And then every once in a while I think, well and oh well, all this had made me a reasonably eccentric and vaguely lovable and fascinating creature with very Shiny Chrome and almost impeccably clean windows, and liberating fashion sense, and an interesting sentence every once in a while. 

These days I am thinking about how if you are suicidal or deemed psychiatrically at risk, you are more or less stripped of your human rights and thrown into a room all by yourself for 72 hours, often restrained. I doubt this is very helpful at all. In fact, I think it is terrible. 

And I am not really sure about Borderline Personality Disorder. I kind of think that Borderline Personality Disorder is like the irritable bowel syndrome of psychiatry. When I eat too many carrots, I get diarrhea, and this does not mean there is anything particularly disorderly about either me or my bowels. Something similar happens with too many grapes, or spoonfuls of coconut cream, and chocolate covered almonds, and all of the legumes. I won't say anything else about this except that, I have a saying that goes, Clap Loud If You Believe in Borderline Personality Disorder. The correct response is, a whole bunch of devastating dad jokes. 

The other thing I feel very aware of is that everything can change in a flash and though you might have all the champion strategies and an excellent network in place, life might still unravel rather tragically.

On Tuesday, as I sat in a park, I saw three kids playing with a bright yellow sponge bob square pants ball. They thought that it would be a brilliant idea to throw the ball into the middle of the pond. One of the little girls changed her mind about the brilliant idea and when she saw the beloved ball in the middle of the pond, she let out an indelicate weep. The little boy say, "Don't worry it will come back." But he didn't do anything, he just watched. And in fact, one or two times the ball did come back and the children giggled with delight. Then the third or fourth time, the ball got stuck a couple metres from the edge of the pond. So Indelicate Weeper sobbed some more and Don’t Worry It Will Come Back shrugged his shoulders and just waited. But the other little girl, maybe 4, said “I’m gonna find a stick.” With the stick, she could reach the ball, and everyone giggled in delight again. And this went on until after one throw, the ball ended up just a little too far for I’m Gonna Find a Stick to reach it. So Indelicate Weeper sobbed and Don’t Worry It Will Come Back shrugged his shoulders. But four-year-old I’m Gonna Find a Stick wouldn't give up and she found some bigger kid and asked her, “Can you help me get the ball?” And the bigger kid said yes, and she could. And the ball came back to the edge of the pond and everyone giggled in delight until it was time to throw the ball once again. 

What I want to say to people who struggle, and this is a lot of us, is, keep reaching however you can. 

Love, Erica. 

Reach out to me, or to Imaginary Vincent at ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
p.s. Vincent is my therapist and  I have that thing where you love your therapist, and I get to see Vincent every other Wednesday.

This is your strange and beautiful life


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Guillaume, Part Two


Dear Vincent, Thank you for responding to my hysterical phone call.
Dear Vincent, This is a hungry ghost.  
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself.

Dear Vincent, On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015.

Dear Vincent,

On Thursday, January 4, 2018, I did not end up flying to the edge of Newfoundland and embarking on a long westward frigid and impossible walk across Canada in my boots that tend to become damp and cold within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on for the benefit of everyone’s mental health which feels like an emergency and also chronically neglected and in memory of Simon Girard who jumped off the roof of Sherbrooke Street’s le Tadoussac on Sunday, January 4, 2015. Instead, I meditated while balancing Women Who Run with the Wolves on my head, worked my one and two-legged squat, and earned $60 cleaning one of my beloved attractive families' attractive home whose attractive Owl Lamp that once needed to be dusted is now nowhere to be found. Then I ate carrots and tahini butter and sugary trail mix for lunch, napped briefly and trudged to a woman’s singing circle that was supposed to help me get in touch with my inner wild woman.

The Wild Woman’s Singing Circle was at a yoga palace. The Yoga Palace had extra special extra dark mahogany floors that are likely a pain in the ass to keep clean though I could not tell because there was not enough light. Inside the Wild Woman’s Singing Circle lay a drum, a shaker, a digeridoo and a rain stick decorated with turquoise tissue paper and medium-sized heart stickers. A woman with bright and exciting tights and a young, ecstatic face welcomed me.

“Thank you for being here,” she said kindly.

She could play the drum the ukulele and had travelled extensively through South America where she felt extra close to the divine, especially when singing in Spanish, or in Portuguese.

My voice felt muted and self-conscious as we warmed up with unstructured chords and syllables.

“Just follow your intuition,” she urged the group. “Sing what sounds beautiful.”

Probably there were five women with soft open faces and spiritual pants seated on the circle’s varied and various cushions. Out of my mouth, nothing sounded beautiful. A few minutes into the spontaneous vowels and chords, three or four more people walked in. One of them was a man wearing a bright yellow t.shirt with the words LOVE written on it in big black letters.

“This is a women’s circle,” said the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukulele.

“Oh,” said the dude in the bright yellow love t. shirt. “I didn’t realize that meant just for women. But we’re all one. We’re all love. I can bring my feminine energy.” He also offered to leave, but the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukelele said that since he was already there, he was welcome, as long as nobody objected. Obviously, none of the women objected. You don’t want to be that woman, but I was tightening and repressing what I actually thought and could sense everyone else doing the same. Almost certainly, the Bright Yellow Love T.Shirt Man qualified as a prototypical SNAG. Everyone knows this stands for Sensitive New Age Guy, and that SNAGS are not my favourite. As soon as this SNAG sat down to sing, he sighed loudly, the kind of sigh that invites everyone to look at you and witness how happy and at peace you are. Happy and at peace, and miraculous.

Probably the sigh also says, look, my cells are undulating and dissolving and this makes me extremely special. And we are all one.

Sometimes my cells feel as though they are undulating and dissolving, and this is quite a comfort though it always passes within very little time. Painfully, the group attempted a song in Portuguese. The octaves were far beyond me and I picked up the rain stick covered in tissue paper and red medium sized heart stickers to try and mask the fact that there was no way I could sing. Not next to the Bright Yellow Love T.shirt SNAG, not in Portuguese, not so high. We tried an easier song about standing on top of a mountain, and God's universal, victorious, empowering and all-redeeming love. Bright Yellow Love T. Shirt SNAG kept moaning and sighing and I kept looking outside and thinking about escaping before twilight and sneaking into Simon’s building le Tadoussac and throwing flowers off the rooftop except that the rooftop would be locked and I didn’t feel like forking over money for flowers with the $60 I’d earned that day if the flowers would only dissolve and perish by the time I got to Sherbrooke Street and Simon would most likely not give a shit, one way or another.

Write your fucking book, Simon would surely have said to me some time in the past year or so, if Simon were still alive and the two of us ended up not being estranged which is not particularly likely.

Dead, dead and more dead, I’d say back.

We started singing sounds according to the vowels of each chakra and I decided I needed to play the card, My ex-ex boyfriend jumped off a building three years ago today and I need to get the fuck out of here. Even though I was not exactly irreparably sad. Only vaguely twitchy, and vaguely teary. Vaguely twitchy and vaguely teary, I played the card, and got the fuck out of there.

On the steps of the yoga palace lay a stray and saggy, soggy glove and this made me think of when Simon used to warm his hands and mine with the forgotten gloves that people scattered all over Montreal in the dead of winter. Almost all these gloves were chic and black leather, but sometimes you were stuck wearing two right-hand gloves, or two left ones.

As it turns out, when you say no, you disappoint people, and they won’t like you as much. Still, we are all love and we are all one. It says so on so many t. shirts, bright yellow and otherwise.

It’s healthier not to give a fuck, Simon always said, and I’ve considered writing these words on my wall in smelly markers, though I fear I’d become very sick of the words very quickly.

From Apartment Number 814 of the Tadoussac where Simon lived, I walked to the dreary grey stairwell and climbed. Simon’s apartment number 814 added up to 13, and this could have been unlucky for him. Like most apartment buildings, the Tadoussac skips from the 12th to the 14th floor, and I find this sad and hilarious and strange. The sounds of my boots that tend to become damp within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on echoed and I remembered climbing these stairs with Simon in January of 2011. My knees had become sore since at the time, I’d been so obsessed with yoga that my body was far too flexible, and not exactly strong enough. Simon preferred climbing the stairs as opposed to the mountain to ensure he wouldn’t run into to very many people. At the 23^rd floor, I came upon a boy, perhaps four or five years old who descended with his father. They’d just gone swimming and their hair was wet.

Est-ce qu’on devrait compter les escaliers en français et en anglais? asked the boy's father. The little boy didn’t think so and they continued to count  the stairs in French. Un deux trois, etc.  The door to the swimming pool that used to lead to the rooftop was locked.  And anyways, likely they locked the rooftop in the winter to protect the other Simons. I walked down the stairwell back to the eighth floor and took the elevator, exiting through the back of the building where Simon had fallen onto the pavement. I’m not sure exactly where.

My calves have been sore ever since, and it could be from the stairs, or from the one-legged and two-legged squats, or from cleaning and walking somewhat excessively, just about every single day. But my legs are strong and my knees don’t hurt.

Rumi says, “The Light Changes. I need more grace then I thought.”

Elizabeth Gilbert says, “Grace says nothing except that I am splendid.” She says this to Oprah on a Super Soul Sunday. I want to be one of those people with an Important Hero’s Quest. Like Oprah and Elizabeth Gilbert.

We are all love.

I’ve thought of drawing my victim wings on my wall in smelly markers. Around the border of the wings I will write, “Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”

“Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”

Every Friday with vinegar and a magical micro fiber cloth, I clean the door of the same stainless steel fridge. On the fridge hangs a butterfly, decorated according to the kindergarten technique where you dabble a bunch of paint on one half of the picture and then fold the paper in half so that the paint spreads to other side, and you have double the colours and double the art. I remember doing the exact same painting routine in Ms. Strotman’s kindergarten class, and then the evening my parents invited Ms. Strotman for dinner I showed off and did the painting routine again. And I folded the paper like an accordion, and clipped it with a clothespin so that my butterfly was 3-dimensional and the wings were nothing but splendid.

The fridge belongs to a lovely family. Attractive, though without an Owl Lamp, they once owned a self-mutilating parrot whose angst had caused him to pluck out all the feathers around his neck. Apparently this is quite common. Now the self-mutilating parrot is flapping his wings in a bird refuge in Oka, north-east of Montreal. There he can fly freely amongst birds with feathered and un-feathered necks and wings that are nothing but splendid. After he went away to Okay, it took about six weeks before I got rid of all the self-mutilating bird shit on the walls and on the floors. The fridge stayed as shiny as ever, at least every Friday.

Selfie, with Vinegar

Outlines of victim wings also look a bit like floppy ears. Floppy ears, a bow tie, and I can’t think of anything else, except perhaps an elephant head, or the shape of certain elbows when someone places their hands squarely on their hips. Or fingerless gloves, their mouths placed side by side.

I like to imagine my victim wings, undulating and then dissolving behind my shoulder blades until they fall to the ground and perish. And I listen for Grace and she says very little, but enough.

Love you always,

Erica.

Send your letters to Vincent and/or Erica to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Vincent may say very little, but Erica will surely say that you are splendid.

Simon Girard 1979-2015
"It's healthier not to give a fuck."


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What a Beautiful Face
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about Killing Yourself
Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21


Professional, Depressed

Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself.

Dear Vincent,

This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself. Last fall, along with the Married Man, the Dead Inside Man was one of my texting boyfriends, following five to seven solid fucks and leg humps in Toronto. The Dead Inside Man has been seeing the same therapist one to two times per week for 31 and a half years. One rainy day, I sent him a blubbering text as I blubbered in my red rain coat after a session with you last October or November of 2016. It didn’t like the system I’d come up with for dealing with my organism and with me life could ever be made viable. And whatever it would take to reprogram the system, I certainly did not have. Also I’d awoken that day between three and four o’clock in the morning. For whatever reason.

This is what the Dead Inside Man texted back:

As someone who has stood on a bridge, contemplating suicide more times than I can count, I keep coming to the same conclusion: just keep going a bit longer because why not.

T’es important. Suicide n’est pas une option. That’s what it says on a poster along the hallway that leads to your windowless office. You are important. Suicide is not an option.

“I’m sorry, but it is an option.” That’s what you, Vincent, said on Thursday, January 4, 2015, two years after my ex-ex boyfriend Simon threw himself off his 23-story apartment building and died in a parking lot between Coloniale and de Buillion street, just north of Sherbrooke. “But it leaves a fucking mess for whoever gets left behind.” Blood on the pavement and an excruciating silence. Everyone always says something about this mess, but they forget that the mess is never just one person’s fault.

Dead Inside Man:

You can do whatever you want with your life.

You owe no one anything.

If you want to travel the world you can. If you want to live on the street you can.

If you want to commit suicide, you can.

But not all of it is easy.

The day that you admitted that suicide was an option, I knew that I could trust you. Last Saturday evening, I went to a meditation class and as I sat in the circle, it occurred to me that almost absolutely the teacher to my left had thought about killing themself. Who meditates without thinking about this? The only solution is to pretend that you’re too busy. Build your plastic empire, build your plastic house. Build your plastic house which soon enough will float away to the massive plastic continent somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where maybe some business savvy rich guy will try to build a condo development.

Dead Inside Man:

Getting better is hard.

Really hard sometimes.

And if you want to give up in a year or two years or five you can.

But it's worth trying to get better. The option is always there to quit.

Life is changing because now when I weep somewhat delicately at the stand-up corner of a popular café and I see the woman behind me has a full box of Kleenex and I ask if I can have one, she says yes and she does not bat an eye. In the new world, strangers offer Kleenex for your grief and they do not bat an eye. The people who weep somewhat delicately at cafes for no apparent reason are not quite aliens. Not anymore.

Dead Inside Man: Think of it like this: you're in a crowded theatre. You start to panic that you're trapped. You look to the exit and just knowing it's there fills you with reassurance.

Doesn't mean you're going to use it. Just means you like to know there's an escape.

Don't kill yourself. But don't beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts."

For Simon just the exit sign wasn’t quite enough. We can be angry at him for leaving us with the image of him crashing down on the pavement. But the mess was not only his fault. Though he could have had one more good day, or even ten more mediocre to alright years, probably it wouldn’t have been enough. I respect his choice.

Stored on my phone, I keep screenshots of the Dead Inside Man’s texts.

Don’t kill yourself. But don’t beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts.

In the new world, everyone knows all the options. And they bring Kleenex.

“Do you need one more before I leave?” asks the stranger as she put on her coat.

“Oh, I’m okay. Thank you,” I say. After she leaves, I weep delicately one last time, and then I trudge out. I remain in the income bracket of people who use toilet paper for Kleenex. But life is always changing. I know all my options and I love you. Outside the world looks so sunny and fresh. It is unimaginably cold, and, you’d think that the air would be so clean, but really it is not clean at all. No, in fact it is not clean at all.

I know all my options and I love you.

Erica.  

Send your letters to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Happy Face with Onesie.


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Guillaume, Part Two
Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.
Professional, Depressed
The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse