Memoirs of a Brief Affair

RH stands for Radical Honesty and might make you think of the hemorrhoid cream. Hemorrhoid is one of those ridiculously difficult words to spell. A lack of hemorrhoids is a source of gratitude. Some people make a case for lukewarm honesty. Instead of the radical kind. I am not that kind of people.

A couple of friends suggested I start a new Haiku or poetry blog. Marriedman.com.

Haiku One. Memoirs of a Brief Affair.

In meditation,

I heard your wife say please stop
texting my husband.

I'd rather not stop.
It is super addictive.
What should we do now.

My dream was about

You guys getting a divorce.
She told your family.

I sat there, listened

as Susie crawled on my lap.
Jeremy said nothing.

I wanted to text

"You didn't try therapy."
Like you said you would.

"It's too expensive."

That was your excuse. But it's
cheaper than divorce.

End of Haiku one.

Seeking redemption,

I fold all my underwear
To look like a rose.

If you’re wondering how Facebook Rehab is going, well, between haikus to the Married Man, I am now posting selfies of myself wearing plush elephant masks and talking to owl puppets. They get tons of likes.

 

Plush Performances

My deepest fear is
I’ll still be sending haikus
To you in ten years.

Tonight at 6 p.m., I get to spark joy in the house of some banker/kundalini yoga instructor. Yesterday, on my way to Butt Club, I texted my most darling friend and mentor (MMDFAM) who generously invited me to my first threesome last spring in Toronto.   

Yesterday, 5:12 PM:  MMDFAM! How’s it going? I tried to get closure with the married man in person, since the haikus did not work. But nor did seeing him. We didn’t make out but I could not can it. I like him. He will never make me a well-fucked woman. What am I doing? Why can’t I channel all this energy into something useful? I feel addicted to the drama and the constant affirmation. It is so hard to focus on life. The Facebook Rehab is a bust. Soon it will be Butt Club. I love you. I’m sure your butt looks phenomenal. XO.

MMDFAM suggested that we raise a toast to INCREMENTALLY BETTER and the Baby Steps^TM method. But having said that, sometimes closure is overrated. Like folding your underwear into the shape of a rose. Butt Club was an enormous success. Four Participants. World record. The Married Man sent his congratulations. He remains in massive haiku debt.

When are we gonna

Bother with integrity
This just needs to end.

I finished translating the novel excerpt about terrorists on a luxury cruise ship. Several sentences needed to die. For example,

“Each of their faces displayed a victorious smile and the entire group exuded a nearly infantile excitement.”

Nobody got to exude a nearly infantile excitement or display a victorious smile. Also the vanishing box did not get to bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool. I am giving the sentences closure.

“Though the men appeared curious at the time, their interest quickly faded as the vanishing box bid farewell with a foamy bluish whirlpool.”

And the love affair between the ex-marine and the captivating cruise ship acrobat didn’t seem to work out either. It died in chapter eight.

“Instead of answering, Charles stopped walking and sadly watched Bella’s figure gradually disappear, like a dream that tortures the heart as it fades into the distance, beyond reach.”

There’s no narrative

Closure is overrated.

The End.

 

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Crackbook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

Prozac Made Me A Better Person
Performative Crying in Alleys
The Tidying Festival

 

 

Prozac Made Me A Better Person

Prozac made me a better person.
I think it awakened my crown chakra.
I feel more beautiful on the inside and the outside, and the rest of the world is not so irritating.
Also, the orgasms came back.
A joy and a Fucking Relief.

The above lines do not form a Haiku,
That said:

It seems I missed my
calling. Writing haikus to
tortured Married Men.

Haikus provide an excellent format for performative text messages.

Did I scare you off?
Oh well. Go deal with your shit.
I’ll be waiting here.

On the stove, I’m steaming broccoli right in the middle of the heat wave. Sometimes the dress does not match the day, and vice versa.

In other news, I am translating two different documents for money.

A novel excerpt about terrorists on a cruise ship, and a riveting manual about project management. Sometimes I have a tendency to make my sentences choppy. Like the waves on the ocean in questionable literary device. The novel is top secret. As for the manual, all I will say is that sometimes project management involves hierarchical decomposition.

In other other news, I have acquired a Facebook Rehab Coach to help me quit my habit of perpetually checking Facebook when the hierarchical decomposition bores me.

Today is Day Two. I am allowed to check Facebook three times. So far, I have only checked it once. For those of you who are also attempting a Facebook cleanse or any kind of cleanse, beware of the Secondary Vice.  Twitter is not adequate. Espresso has its limits, as does humping the duvet. And haikus to the Married Man run the risk of canning the whole thing.

Haiku Interlude:

I think the problem is.
I need too much attention.
Not sustainable.

I need too much attention. Hence, the Bananas.

Sentences I wrote to my Facebook Rehab Coach Interlude:

I agree about it making me feel terrible pretty much every single time. Jealous, inadequate, underachieving, FOMO, guilt, there are so many negative sensations I can associate with Facebook, and yet I plunge into the black hole over and over again. I have somewhat of an addictive personality. Also, when I'm stressed out, my brain likes to do a whole bunch of things all at once, even though this rarely resolves the source of stress and often makes it much worse.

A couple of weekends ago I went to a cottage and didn't check my phone for two days. It was so easy. I thought I'd evolve to a brand new Erica and yet as soon as I got home, I was masturbating all over my phone all the time all over again. Self-forgiveness is so important.

I like narrating my life, and having virtual audiences. I want my life to be affirmed. Maybe that is why I like Facebook. There is maybe the possibility of having people affirm my life.  Also, I am translating this jargonny manual about project management and it so boring.

Recently I read somewhere that everyone needs a base level of food, money, power and sex. Due to social media, there is also a base requirement for attention which is actually quite high.

 

The Project Management document is talking about subtracting actual competencies from expected competencies. Guess I should get back to it.



Wink, Grin, Pear = Tell me I'm cute

End of Sentences I wrote to my Facebook Rehab Coach Interlude.
I really like my new dress. It matches the day.

The End.

The Dress that Matches the Day
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Crackbook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

Performative Text Messages
Performative Crying in Alleys
The O's in the Tôtô have Hats

Why I am Like  Oprah
Deep Unyielding Depression, Part Two