Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.

Dear Vincent,

Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter. He sounds quite sad. Sorrowful Simon initially reached out to me on the dating site, OkCupid. We’ve never met in real life. My excuse for not going a date with him was that I had already experienced a Sorrowful Simon in a rather extensive way. You, and some other people know that the first Sorrowful Simon in my life ended up jumping off a building. Perhaps my excuse for not going on a date was adequate. Now I have repeated the name, “Sorrowful Simon,” four-and now five-times in one paragraph. That’s enough times. It is time to address Simon’s plight.

 

Simon says,

 

By habit, or because they sense that I’m not doing too good, friends have been asking me how I am feeling more frequently lately, and I’m finding it difficult to answer them with any degree of clarity. Like Erica, I had a therapist which really helped me a few months back, and in the same way I ran out of allowed sessions so we had to part ways. Since then, I have strived to keep clarifying my feelings and emotions in my head, but inevitably I get lazy and stop doing it regularly, which then makes it harder to do so, and the cycle leads to where I’m at right now, I guess: having so much in my head that nothing can get out, or just barely, sometimes when I get drunk/high and start writing poems, or if I start talking with a friend or a lover and I’m in the right frame of mind (but then sooner or later I start thinking that I’m boring that person, imposing, or just not making sense, and I reel back my outspoken outburst).

 

Dear Simon, How are you?

 

So easily this question can trigger such performance anxiety. It sounds like your friends genuinely care and want to know, and yet you feel like you can’t quite open up, because what if the true answer is actually too much? My sense is that many people feel as though if they were to honestly reveal themselves, all their feelings and suffering and struggles, that this would be way too much for those around them. An unacceptable and tedious burden. And so you hold back. But this doesn’t sound like a viable option, since it is building up to more than you can bear. You need a mode of expression, a means of release. I’m sorry that therapy is no longer available. How can you replicate some of the relief it provided?

 

Alcohol and drugs, well, these can have their place, as long as they’re pursued without desperation or addiction. But substances have their limits as long-term sources of comfort. In my experience, they tend to isolate over time, in addition to generating shame and/or oblivion, whether immediate or in their aftermath. Thus, with as clear a mind as you can access, I think you need to reach out to real people, either your friends, or the kind voices at the end of a crisis helpline. Choose the most non-judgmental and compassionate person you can find, perhaps not your mother, but maybe. And then speak. So frequently I hear of people finally opening up to their loved ones, disclosing the deep and seemingly intolerable darkness on their hearts. And you know what their loved ones say? “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

 

Simon:

 

There are so many things I could say right now, things which I know are weighing down on me, but to explain them in a coherent manner would require so much back-story… I don’t know if you would think it relevant or even intelligible.

 

Some of those things concern my ex-wife and children… some are about the situation with my current lover… some are about my day-to-day life and yearnings… about writing, which I still consider to be my vocation, but a failed one… but mostly it’s about Loneliness, which (I realized recently) I am more afraid of than Death (which is paradoxical, seeing as I am a solitary person by nature, and quite enjoy solitude).

 

At some point it will likely be worthwhile to rehash and unleash all the backstory. But right now I want to talk about writing. Writing and then Loneliness. But first writing. Although failing at any vocation sounds immensely painful, writing is a particularly loaded thing to fail at. There are all sorts of so-called empowering self-help books on how to awaken your creativity and write incessantly, prolifically, uninhibitedly, and with unrelenting joy, great brilliance and then you get rich and famous. I have read most of these books. Last summer, I threw out a book called, “The Right to Write” and I hope to avoid encountering such publications for the rest of my life.

 

No book will grant you with “The Right to Write.” It is all yours. Always. As for vocations and failure, humans invented both of these things, and while I don’t want to invalidate your perception, it could be helpful to challenge your beliefs on what it is you are “supposed” to be doing, and what it means to be successful.

 

On the bathroom wall of where I am staying, there’s a list written by a 90-year-old woman, containing 45 lessons that life taught her. The woman’s name is Regina

One of Regina’s lessons is, “All that really matters in the end, is that you loved.”

It’s possible that this sentence provides you with absolutely no relief. It might even fill you with cynicism. But I want you to consider what your list would be. Will becoming a successful writer truly provide you with the redemption you think you need? What societal bullshit are you clinging to? What personal bullshit are you clinging to? When you are 90 years old or younger and dying, what choices will seem like excruciating mistakes? What memories will bring you peace? What does your meaningful life look like? As Oprah would say, “What do YOU want?”

 

I used to think I wanted to be a best-selling novelist. Over and over again, I would write the first 80 pages of “My Life’s Work.” Then one morning after cranking my various spines through a sweaty yoga practice in India, I realized, the hell with it. I don’t want to write novels. The act of writing novels entails a whole slew of tasks I don’t particularly enjoy. For example, making things up. Rewriting drafts of long and imaginary stories over and over again. Writing about something other than myself and my own life. Well, this embarrassing, but honest. And what a relief to let that so-called dream unravel.

 

You get to choose the terms of your own success, creative or otherwise. During the spring of 2015, I decided that I would combat the unrelenting notion that I was perpetually failing creatively by committing to publishing two blogs per week, no matter what. This became my creative practice, and though I only maintained it religiously for a few months, it got me out of an angsty stagnant funk. I came up with a whole bunch of work that I am proud of and that even made me feel more at peace about the possibility of dying. Some people read it and most of the world didn’t. To a certain extent, Margaret Atwood’s experience is not all that different. We are all like Margaret Atwood, and not at all.

 

So I am wondering, Simon, if perhaps you could somehow take the “failure” and “vocation” out of your story about being a writer. Is there some sort of tangible and low pressure creative practice that might bring you a sense of accomplishment and joy? Ten minutes of rambling on the bus, a heartfelt email every afternoon, beginning the day with your pen and notebook and three to five sentences. Come up with something that’s small enough to pull off, but large enough to not feel like a cop out. During the times in my life when I am writing, no matter what I’m writing, and no matter what else is going on, I hate myself less, and am also less lonely.

 

That’s all I will say about loneliness this time. I will leave Simon, Vincent and our readers with the poem Simon wrote at the end of his letter:

 

I’m just half a person

part of me withered

(like Janus looking

at Death & Life

at the same time)

but still

I must take on

the Whole of my Life

 

no wonder

I’m so tired

-by Simon.

 

Yes, Simon, I can see why you’re tired. I’d be tired too. I wish you the deepest and most unshakeable peace available.

 

With love to Vincent and to this and every Simon,

Erica.


The End.


Vincent was my therapist from October of 2016, and May 2017. After we ran out of subsidized sessions, I began to write him daily imaginary emails. I called the project, "Mondays without Vincent," and it turned out to be quite healing. You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. In fact, if you'd like, you can send them to me, on any day of the week.

My secret address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail.com.

Let me know if you’d like a response. The correspondence can remain between us, or else we can share it here with others and maybe it could be healing for everyone. Love, Erica.

"What truly happy person needs to stand in front of the mirror every morning to convince themselves they're happy?"
-Mark Manson, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.
Not me, Mark. No. Not me.




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Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.
Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake Up.
Five Days of Creative Recovery

Hour of God on a Friday

Hour of God on a Friday.
My body cannot release you.
Vincent says, "Some fucks are like empty calories."
Vincent never tells me what to do.
 
Everyone wants
to tell you
how hard
writing is.
 
But sentences
that start
with Everyone
are easy.
 
I also like
to talk about
my bunions.
 
Robbie always hated poetry,
going to bed,
and mornings.
 
I always hated science fiction,
formatting,
and catching the bus.
 
Toddlers we knew
wrote tributes to the moon.
"Moon up!" called the twins.
"Lune, lune," chanted Isaac.
 
Is the moon an official
stage of development?
Like seagulls and bulldozers,
learning to share,
and apple juice.
 
A full moon began
our beautiful delusions.
I menstruated twice in three weeks.
 
We carried on the myth
by talking like the two year olds.
 
Every language has its expiration date.
 
At this point it's hard
not to think about yogurt.
 
That's one of the reasons
I struggle to move on.
 
Because every time I
 see yogurt,
I think of you.

Yogurt,
and avocadoes.
I tend to forget to take off the stickers.
You kept having to remind me.
 
Together, we learned
to store avocadoes
in paper bags.
 
Sentences containing
avocadoes
are also very easy.
 
Almost every time
I see citrus
somewhere in
Vincent's office.
 
He might get the flu,
or a death in the family,
or a cold sore.

 

The End.
 

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The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
Why I am like Jane Fonda
Mythological, Unconditional Love

Kleenex

(This is Day One of a Project called "Five Days of Creative Recovery." It is meant as an antidote to Deep Unyielding Depression and various Sources Of Grief. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something creative. Out of words or whatever is possible. Feel free to join me however you'd like!)

Kleenex (working title)

When I was seventeen years old, my father and I flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba to say goodbye to my grandmother before she died. My grandmother was in her late eighties, and I think she had pneumonia.  I know she had nine children, two of them twins, one of them born almost dead. Her husband, Julias had died a good half decade earlier. When he died, I’d sewed Grandma a simple cloth bag out of quilted patchwork. She’d used it to keep her Kleenexes. At one point, my grandmother had insisted on starching my grandfather’s cloth diapers. And then somehow, she’d made the switch from handkerchiefs to Kleenex. Is that what death does to you?

As with most nursing homes, the hallways of Fred Douglas Lodge smelled of urine and antiseptic cleaning supplies. Crowds of half-asleep people in wheelchairs gathered around a large t.v. that played Singing in the Rain. And some poor man in the Lazy Boy cried out for Jesus.

Oh mighty Lord! Help me!

My grandmother spent most of her time in her room. She had a meticulous soap opera schedule to keep up with. When my father and I arrived, the t.v. was on mute. Grandma was lying in bed, a few squares of Kleenex arranged across her chest. We both kissed her and then I helped myself to stale bridge mix. She nodded as I ate. Since we lived so far away, whenever we went to Winnipeg, my father dedicated most of his time to sitting with my grandmother. To make up for all the months he wasn’t there. All his other siblings came at least once a week. If ever anyone missed a visit, Grandma would not be impressed.

Every time I visited Grandma, I felt quite guilty because I had long ago lapsed as her personal correspondent. Between the ages of eight and ten, I’d devoted myself to sending my grandparents letters every single day.

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine.

Then I’d go on and on about my violin lessons, swim meets and sleepovers. Back then I was quite a comedian and would often include a few good jokes.

What goes ha ha ha, plop?

Somebody laughing their head off.

Ha. Plop. I feel like I have not said the word “plop” in quite some time.

I used to decorate the envelopes with Mr. Sketch Smelly markers. Then I got busy with my extensive academic, musical and athletic ambitions. The letters simply stopped.

They were the joy of my grandparents’ lives, and then they were over.

“What happened to all the beautiful letters you used to write?” my grandmother sobbed one summer as I kissed her goodbye. Thirteen years old, and now I was a big disappointment. Grandma also complained that my hair wasn’t as lovely and curly as it used to be. So many burdens.

I think I am eleven here. Still sporting the curls, as I try desperately to be photogenic.

But as people are dying, you are supposed to get over such things. On her death bed, every time my grandma had to blow her nose, she ripped off a tiny square of Kleenex. Instead of using the whole thing, she would separate the two-ply pieces in half and then rip them into tiny squares. Four squares for each flimsy half. Days to live and Kleenex still seemed worth saving.

I remember staring at the ripped up Kleenexes. In my seventeen year old head, I thought, “Wow. Life is so tragic. So profound.” I was super deep and wise. Perhaps not, but I was definitely sincere. I felt bewildered that all the people at Fred Douglas Lodge would die, and eventually everyone would forget that they’d bothered to squander Kleenexes all the way to the end. I had this clear thought, that writing was the only real chance for redemption. Otherwise what was the point.

My grandmother died the weekend after we left. It was Easter Sunday. Nobody ever told me whether or not during her final days, she’d branched out and let herself splurge on the whole piece of Kleenex.

The End.

Be Creative.
I love how tidy my bookshelves are. I don't have a bookshelf anymore.
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt (2-3 bucks on Amazon)

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Yours Til Ekam Inhales     
Castles in the Basement
What People Really Need
The Closer I am to Fine

 

Five Days of Creative Recovery

The Bald Baristas are closed on Mondays.

Soon I will need to dis-assemble The Erica Museum. I am quite sad about this. These days, I’ve been rather sad about a number of things. The sources of grief, they are easy to find. An obvious slogan on my Brain’s Brochure: “Her thoughts provide an excellent Source of Grief.”

Besides Sources of Grief, my brain also likes to concoct catchy acronyms. As you might already know, Deep Unyielding Depression equals DUD. Sources Of Grief equals SOG. What’s your brain’s favourite SOG?

SOGs often lead to self-deprecating tornados. Tornados and/or hurricanes. Once you get stuck in a tornado or hurricane, it can be hard to escape. SOG-inflicted natural disasters are powerful, fascinating and convincing. In my brain there is no shortage of such natural disasters. Although I have a talent for beating myself up about all sorts of failures, not writing well and/or enough seems to be one of my psyche’s favourite forms of self-torture. Unfortunately, the relentless and self-inflicted pressure is not original. Nor does it really help my cause.

Writer’s block is hard to kick. What a drama. And the thing is, I don’t really even have writer’s block. I write all the time. Constantly. For my translation gigs, in my journals, for my pen pals, for my lucky texting friends. But the SOG story says, “You are not making anything official.  You are not Margaret Atwood. You suck.”

And well, as we’ve already established, I am not like Margaret Atwood. Everyone knows why.

There’s a quote about Margaret Atwood in my self-help book, I Let Go. Once again, I will say, it is rather hilarious that I wrote a book called “I Let Go” since I find it excruciating to let go of anything. I am thinking about writing a sequel, “I Don’t Let Go.” In any case, here’s the I Let Go quote:

“So you didn’t get to be Margaret Atwood this time around.  Neither did anybody else.  Margaret Atwood is Margaret Atwood.  Perhaps she saved time by not humping her duvet, but she still had to experience strenuous shits and sinus colds and mediocre sex.  Plus she’ll probably die before you will.  If not then you get to beat her at turning to worm shit.”

Me and the Hedgeclipper in I Let Go. Excellent Drawing by Sara E. Enquist

As an additional point, one might pity Margaret for having to be so coherent. Poor Marg.

Once my Magic Mushrooms Friend told me I was as smart as Margaret Atwood.

Oh, Marg

As smart as Marg. I find it extremely rewarding to write sentences and phrases that only use one vowel.

Bob throws socks on John’s hot dog.

Su’s ducks fuck up.
She sends tense sentences.

I miss his dick.
Is Dick sick?

The i sentences are the funnest. Is funnest a word? Apparently not.

“We’re not writing a book. We’re writing our lives.” This is one of my favourite quotes from Simon, my ex-ex boyfriend who jumped off a building last January 4th. The good news is, you’re allowed to write your life however you want. In text messages, postcards, or in exquisite copy for soothing skin creams.

Yesterday, I wrote an optimistic poem on Facebook. It came to me as I walked down an alley in my neighbourhood. I was on my way home after hours of fruitless and discouraging apartment hunting.

“Repress your hopeless thought.

Behold the optimistic clothesline.”

the optimistic clothesline

Clotheslines are super optimistic. So are white t.shirts.

behold the white t. shirts.

With great optimism, my friend Naomi once gave me a whitish jacket. On the weekend, during a visit to the Bald Baristas, I somehow managed to get a bunch of black ink all over it. I’m surprised this hadn’t happen much earlier. The incident provoked zero hopeless thoughts. In fact, I felt excitement as I imagined borrowing art supplies and transforming the jacket into something wild and exuberant. Something to wear or to put in my next museum. 

the optimistic jacket

By the way, a total of two people came to visit the Erica Museum. Admission fees were paid in chocolate chips, seaweed, tempeh and hazelnut pudding. Also, I am giving away the Threesome Tights. I do not think I will wear them again. If you think the tights might work for you, please be in touch.

Threesome Tights. Available for a Limited Time Only.

Anyways, all this is meant to introduce my project for this week: Five Days of Creative Recovery. It is meant as an antidote to the SOGs and the DUDs. For the next five days, I will do my best to post something creative. Out of words or whatever I can manage. This blog is often very silly, and I do not have a million readers. Even so, over the years, the process of sharing has brought me immense relief and sometimes joy.  

Thanks for being there.
Love, Erica.

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Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt (2-3 bucks on Amazon)

Creative Practice, Simon's Genies, and the Exuberant Bodhisattva's Big Exciting Blog News
Yours Til Ekam Inhales
Deep Unyielding Depression

The Erica Museum
Why I am Different from Margaret Atwood...

 

Not That Kind of Girl

November is some kind of national novel writing month. Every November, I feel flooded with guilt that yet again, I will not write a novel. One year I tried. Made the word count of 1750 daily words for a week or so. The novel was about the time I lived and worked at a house for people with intellectual disabilities. I called it “Two Spines.” The material was rich. I pull it out regularly but I have never been able to put it together into anything coherent. By about eighty pages, it feels useless and impossible. Torture, regret, self-loathing. Can novel writing month be filled with anything else? I told my mother about novel writing month and its ensuing guilt. She told me that sometimes she wishes that someone would cut off her arms so that she wouldn’t have to feel guilty about not practicing the piano enough. Perhaps guilt is genetic. Or endemic. Perhaps I will write a novel while I’m in Delhi. Or someone will cut off my arms and forever rid me of the guilt.
 
Now I am in Delhi.

In the mornings I try and meditate. I used to be good at meditation, but in Delhi, it is excruciating. To stay focussed, I balance a copy of Lena Dunham’s “Not That Kind of Girl” on my head. Maybe Lena Dunham would like that. It’s possible that I am the only person in the world who balances “Not That Kind of Girl” on her head while meditating. We will have to see on Periscope. All through meditation, I am dying for the Internet.

Me and Lena

“Not That Kind of Girl” is somewhat up my alley. A great deal of nudity, sex, body parts, menstruation and masturbation. When she was very young, someone told Lena that touching your private parts led to something that felt like a sneeze. Soon afterwards, Lena started masturbating and discovered that in fact, the result was more like a seizure. I liked that part. During the summer, a friend of mine asked me when I felt the most alive in the past few years. Without missing a beat, I told him about the surprise sex that Robbie and I had one summer afternoon. It was heavens parting squirt everywhere kind of sex. Magic Mushrooms Sex. Beautiful Sex. A sneeze sort of orgasm. The time was August of 2014.
 
When I think about that summer, sometimes I consider that this was the last time Robbie and I were truly happy. A bit sad. You never know when the best times will be over.
 
My Magic Mushrooms Friend says that if you're a squirter and you don't squirt, it can build up and cause neurosis. I met my Magic Mushrooms Friend on the online dating site Plenty of Fish in 2009. We never made each other squirt; in fact, we never even kissed. But he has taught me a great deal about drugs and squirting. My Magic Mushrooms Friend is a big advocate of learning to squirt by yourself. I have never figured this out. I find the duvet is limited in its ability to generate a squirting sneezing sort of orgasm. If Lena Dunham were me, I imagine that by now, she would have done a better job at figuring it out. Probably she would have published all of it: the Magic Mushrooms Sex, the sneeze sorts of orgasms. So now I am like Lena Dunham. In her book, there are excerpts from online messenger chats. I can see myself publishing such things. And/or excerpts of words I wrote to pen pals. And why not do this right now.

In Delhi, I write to my pen pals constantly. Nobody is as good at writing back as I am. Not even my mother. That’s why I need at least five or six or seven pen pals. Maybe more. If you’d like to be my pen pal, here is what you can expect.

WORDS TO MY PEN PALS:

“When I was squatting on a public toilet today it occurred to me that my vagina looks different than it used to. Like the labia sticks out more and is crooked. I am not going to google prolapsed vagina but I am wondering if my vagina has changed since I stopped doing ashtanga. Or maybe I hump the bed too much. Or stretch too much. Do you remember my labia sticking out a whole bunch? Okay thanks.”

“Oh man. Not sure what I was thinking I was going to do here. I feel overwhelmed and isolated and useless and dirty and gross. Just tried to order food and it was a shit show. Whatever. It's the same old me. Everywhere I go. I don't know what was so bad about my life in Halifax or in Montreal with my stoner roommate. I miss Robbie so much. I feel like I won't pull off anything with my life. I am too old for this. Sad noise.”

“Tonight for dinner I ate some canned beans in tomato sauce and couscous. Quickly going through Fern’s cupboard of non-perishable items. She has some questionable do-it-yourself custard, skippy peanut butter and two kinds of oatmeal. I will need to find the restaurants soon.”

“The Canadian winter seems so wonderful if it means fresh air.”

“I really don't feel okay. I feel like my friend’s four-year-old, so desperate for his parents to come see him in bed but it wasn't part of the agreement so he was left to wail on his own.  Going to have a shower and try to sleep.”

“Am I actually going to become self-reliant, self-assured? Feels like such a stretch. I am baffled by how people figure out their lives.  Like how my friend Fern has figured out such a beautiful home in this crazy city. She just seems to have livelihood all figured out. It's so impressive. There there, Erica. You'll figure out your life too. Or will everything just dissolve like the colours of your tie dye hippie skirt?”

“I finally got the balls to go to a restaurant. It was kind of a dive but I had an okay feeling about it. Chana masala, jeera rice. A ten year old girl who I thought was a boy came and stood beside me and talked to me the whole time. She asked me about Canada and said she really wanted to see snow. It was adorable. She even gave me her mother's phone number. I hope she won't be too disappointed if I don't text. Felt immediately better after eating, which is not always the case in India. I find when I first come to a new place I suffer low grade starvation as I try to figure out where I can safely feed myself... Not the best for a serene state of mind, though easily fixed.”

“It seemed I was the only person in hippie clothes in the city but I did some touristy things today and I feel like maybe anything goes. Spiritual pants, jeans, tie dye, moomoos, whatever you want is no problem. I am happy that the yellow in my tie dye skirt matches the yellow in my splash n boots shoes. Highly trendy.”

The Hippie Skirt and the SplashnBoots shoes. SplashnBoots is an outrageously successful children's band whose members I am related to. Their theme colours are blue and yellow, just like my zero drop sneakers. 

“I rigged the tarot deck so that all the good cards faced upright and the bad ones were reversed. But since I moved to delhi the cards don't come true anymore. The cards say upright even when it all turns into massive chaos. I don't think they work anymore. I might need to give them up.” 

“It sounds bad but I got into a conversation with some guy who complimented me on how good I was at crossing the street. I am actually excellent. I just looked at the bus driver and he stopped. Imposing Nova Scotia ethics onto Delhi traffic. (Please don't worry)  Anyways, this guy ended up coming to a café with me and it wasn't sketchy at all. Not all Indian men want to get into your pants. Maybe a bit, but not excessively.” 

Spiritual Pants. Again.

"Kind of sick of wearing hippie clothes. The skirts drag in the puddles. It seems Delhi is a lot more cosmopolitan than Mysore. Women wear jeans and leggings or whatever they want. I suppose it's better to dress more conservatively in the more touristy areas. Or anywhere unknown. And some Indians seem to like pyjama pants. For badminton, and powerwalking. My friend Fern has quite a fancy wardrobe. Prada and the works. She is also about a foot shorter than me. And if I’m going to pull of the Prada dress, I will need to do something about my leg hair.”

“My ex-boyfriend sent me an article about the risk of loneliness and premature death, and how lonely people sometimes make choices that don’t help their loneliness. Haven’t heard from him much since he sent it.”

“Did your toenail fungus cleanse end up working? My toenails are a catastrophe right now. Half of both big ones broke off. I don’t know why all of the sudden. Too much papaya? White carbs? Everyone’s fungus mixing together? So gross.

Have you looked into colonics yet? Other cleanses?

Maybe I am having a people cleanse right now. Resetting my social skills. The idea, I think, is that if you don’t interact with people for a certain amount of time, your habits of interaction totally change. I’ll let you know how that goes.”

“The cleaning lady messed the Tarot cards up so that some of them were upside down. I did some readings with the flipped around deck, but it seemed too scary and devastating. If the cards predict a bad day in Delhi, it could be truly horrific. I decided to rig the deck again. I think it was a good plan.”

“Though I have the Internet, being here reminds me a bit of Vipassana. Barely a soul to talk to, and people barely see me. And when I think of people I know, I am filled with love and longing, as though nothing could be more beautiful. 

It isn't a terrible feeling, but I miss the humans.”

"I am trying to go to sleep but I keep checking the Internet for friends. I want someone to cherish me and tuck me in with a deep love. And well, there is only me."

“I got my vag and legs waxed on Wednesday. Also found a pair of jeans in Fern's closet that sort of fit. I think they might be Bobbi's. One size too big. But both the jeans and the waxed vag sort of helped my morale.”

Me with waxed vag in Bobbi's Jeans

“I forgive you for not writing back about my vagina.”

The End.



The Lotus Temple, Proof that I do more than sit around and take selfies.
Off to Udaipur tomorrow!

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