Dear Vincent, I still wish I/ Was Miranda July.

Subject: I still wish I/Was Miranda July

Friday, February 8, 2019

Dear Vincent,

I have a saying that goes,

All your sadness is in your lungs.
I still wish I
Was Miranda July.

Just around this time last year, I published a tragic blogpost entitled, Everyone is one with the birds except for me. And I remember trudging downtown to teach yoga to the insurance people who did not like my Animal Flow routine, and on the way, I ignored a call from my optimistic and pragmatic bestie, since I was beyond Optimism and Pragmatism, and, 
adamant that I could not possibly get old if days like this were to prevail, I planned my death for March 18, 2025, the 14-year anniversary of not puking in my mouth, and I’d be 39 and four months and a couple of weeks, which is approximately my favourite age of dude, though soon this may prove to be somewhat too young for me.

Later that week in 2018, while everyone else was being one with the birds, I remember lying in the snow in front of some trees in Parc Outremont, and weeping from deep behind the bottom of my lungs.

On Wednesday night, I walked myself by those same trees, and I'd had the afternoon off, and I'd just bought the domain name Deep Cleans with Erica, and I felt bouncy and happy and I wondered, who was that, weeping from deep behind the bottom of her lungs? What a relief to be someone else, at least for now.

Everyone is one with the birds.

I got in to read at Grownups Read Things They Wrote As Kids again, and I am reading a couple of the emails from my Hotmail account during first-year university, and I was 18, and the emails are to Nandi who was my boss when I coached little kids on the swim team, and then Nandi moved to Calgary and he was 38 years old, and I had a crush on him, and we wrote back and forth. 

And so I have been into writing to distant 38 to 40 years old crushes for quite some time now. It feels so easy to love who I used to be, with all the hope and all the optimism. It's all very beautiful, though heartwrenching at times.

What I know for sure, by 18-year-old Erica:

“What I know for sure, as Oprah would say, is that life inevitably fluctuates, some days may feel like the act of falling into a sewer while other days see you soaring euphorically around the world.  Everyone around you wonders what it is that causes you to glow so intensely legally, morally, uncorruptly.  It's all very interesting though heartwrenching at times. 

I guess I am discovering that I am a very intense person and though I have to go through some amount of sewer moments, to put it cheesily, the rainbow/butterfly/pot of gold always reveals itself after a time… I don't buy that you're as happy as you make your mind up to be.  I think you're as happy as you're able to love and accept yourself and the people around you, life as it is, with and without miracles, its unpredictability, dissatisfactions, surprises, love, joy etc.  From the movie ‘kiss of the spiderwoman’ I heard the words ‘the best thing about being happy is the feeling that you'll never be unhappy again.’” 

Erica, 18
That feeling that  you'll never be unhappy again.
Plus groomed hair, skinny eyebrows, turquoise lasenza hydralift padded bra
and a watch.

The first half of the Every-Other-Wednesday-to-Thursday Vats-Of-Oatmeal-At-Least-Two-Half-Dying-Ferns-Plus-Expensive-Granola-Multiple-Baby Hump was cancelled this week. During the second half of the hump, the baby twins babbled, and kept reaching for the vacuum cleaner, and then in the afternoon, I got a cleaning buzz at the Self-Mutilating Parrot Family’s and even though my livelihood might be dipping back down to the poverty line, somehow I am not all that worried. When I die, I am sure I’ll have enough money to pay for my funeral. Will you come?

The best thing about being happy is the feeling that you’ll never be unhappy again.

Happy Friday!

Love, Erica.

Saturday, February 9, 2019

Dear Vincent,

I forgot to say that the day after the folding workshop, the base of my tongue told me to give the rest of the anti-keto-diet chocolate chip cookies to (dot dot dot) and his selling points are (dot dot dot)  and it seems he is old enough to stand in as a potential father figure. Let's hope he's not married, or gay, that he has an insatiable sex drive and believes in sexual transcendence, and thinks I’m vaguely awesome and that our attachment trauma is compatible. Yah, no pressure.

I’m just kind of tired of longing for my cells to dissolve in the kitchen as I get fucked. I am worried about menopause, and that it will come on fast.

Bonus from eighteen-year-old Erica:

“Some people have and always will have a tough time being happy.  I don't plan for this struggle to be a chronic aspect of my life but I do believe that an amount of suffering is essential for growth.
I have begun to religiously sing in the shower, I derive much pleasure from creative endeavors, not including essays, and also I think that there is a lot to be said for being honest. 
Real. truthful. 

Barely anyone lets it all out, due to a handicap of language and the human condition, which is apparently fallen, but there exists hope in unexpected places.  And no this does not necessarily refer to mind altering substances.  Anyways, I am eighteen years old.  That's it.  Young, but life can prove to be fleeting sometimes.  Therefore, the endeavor begins, to live fully with no regrets, climb out of the sewer when necessary, sing in the shower, and nap." 

Some days see you soaring euphorically around the world.

Some days see you soaring euphorically around the world.

Hope you have a great weekend!

Love, Erica.

However and wherever you may soar around the world, your correspondence remains welcome at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. 

Let's hope he's not married, or gay, 

that he has an insatiable sex drive and believes in sexual transcendence, 

and thinks I’m vaguely awesome and that our attachment trauma is compatible.

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Dear Vincent, You will be so thrilled to know

Deep Unyielding Depression 

Dear Vincent, Some other Vincent coerced me into a blowjob

Everyone is one with the birds except for me.

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

Dear Vincent,

Now you know I have that thing where you love your therapist. Your Bumble profile is pretty decent. I’d say switch your main profile pic from the furrowed selfie amongst famous paintings (though this makes you seem cultured, intelligent and potentially rich) to your windblown face in front of the mountain. Not with the kangaroo. That’s cute, but some women find animals to be too obvious a ploy. Always lead with your Windblown, I’m About To Orgasm Sex Face. I rehearsed a last minute live performance in front of your Windblown, I’m About To Orgasm Sex Face and the performance went reasonably well.

So you swiped right by accident? Does this at least mean you think I’m a little bit cute? Please can you say, I have excellent legs? Just once.

In our session, I reverberated and told you all about all the Dear Vincent letters and how I post them on the Internet, and how one day I hope they will make an excellent book called, Mondays without Vincent. And yes, for months and months, I did thoroughly long for the book to end with a scandalous and life-changing wind blown orgasm in your windowless office on a Tuesday or Wednesday afternoon.

Oh well. Turns out you are two to four years too young for me anyways. Mostly I like to date outside of my decade. That way my boyfriend is more able to double as some sort of dad.

In your windowless office in your chair where you sit so still with your knees just slightly apart, you used words like “Unreciprocated,” “Impossible,” and “Once a patient, always a patient.” I am glad you have such excellent professional boundaries. These have never been my gift. My gift is, “Professional Impossible Crushes.” P.I.C.

P.I.C’s, these infuse my cells with love and they permeate my heart. You have been the perfect P.I.C. because your eyes are so kind and so beautiful and you make me feel so safe and you leave just about everything up to the imagination. I would have loved to be exceptional and unique and original but I guess this thing where you love your therapist is in fact quite common. It is an immense relief to know that it does not necessarily disqualify me as your patient. Probably I will continue to pretend that secretly, I am your favourite. But I will try to convince my cells to fully comprehend the sentence, “A good therapist will never take you out for a sandwich.” This means that when I masturbate, I’ll more or less refrain from picturing your face somewhere near my crotch or behind me or on top of me having a windblown orgasm. So far it’s been a hell of a time getting off. And I can’t help but wonder if maybe you jerked off to me, maybe just once or else twice. And if all of us are actually just wandering around the world, playing imaginary roles in imaginary costumes. And if the truth is, we all end up taking off our costumes and picking up a sandwich and masturbating to one another when we get home.

Love, Erica.

Send your letters to Vincent and/or Erica to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Erica Live on Facebook seems to have begun
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I Let Go

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Dear Vincent, Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might ask if you too are a Scorpio, and if so, is it your birthday?
Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.
Dear Vincent, Thank you for responding to my hysterical phone call.  


Mythological Unconditional Love (M.U.L.)