Tuesday, February 19, 2019
Subject: The Prize is the Rest of your life.
Dear Vincent,
So guess what? I found my cervix! Also found you on Facebook. Nice (dot, dot dot, In case you're wondering, I wouldn't necessarily not date someone who curled, lawnbowled and/or go-karted)
Never would have guessed your name though I'm sure in real life
(dot, dot, dot.
One of the many problems with
Professional Boundaries is
They don't tend to roll off the tongue.)
I suppose PC has never been your thing.
"40 is the new 30! And Down Syndrome kids are so cute, right?"
(dot, dot, dot. Yah, he really said this. Rolled right off his tongue.)
Lucky for you, your girlfriend looks like she’s very youthful! And such a glorious high achiever! Hope she has fun with the
(dot, dot, dot… let’s just pretend she’s off to save the manatees somewhere boring like Florida). There’s nothing like when your dreams come true.
Too bad your époque baveuse is already over. Seems a little premature.
(dot, dot, dot. You can say a slug is a bête baveuse and this means they are a slimy creature.
dot, dot, dot.
Yah, ten minutes before you promise yourself you’ll block somebody on Facebook forever, the best is to first stalk every available detail of their profile so you don’t miss any mourning of any bygone kinky era that stroking an exotic animal’s ass in some beautiful exotic place seems to evoke. And you don’t want to miss any girlfriends either, especially the ones who evoke your deep seated Mammoth Complex. Thoroughly peruse all the tiny girlfriends, from exotic places, or else ultra overachievers from nearby.)
Benjamin Hunting says that the cervix leads to Narnia. Your Facebook profile led me to paint over all of the Vincents on my wall and can all this self-inflicted torture.
The only Vincent left on the wall is, Two things I really believe in are Deep Cleans and Mondays without Vincent. Whatever that means.
One time, I wrote a deeply terrible and embarrassing poem called,
I cave in and pretend I’m fucking Vincent,
and one of the most embarrassing parts is,
"Professionals Boundaries mean that
I love you is pathology.
You get all the money.
And I get all the shame."
The sad and bitter part of me wants to say, DEAR VINCENT, HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE WHITE MAN IN THE ROOM WITH ALL THE POWER AND ALL THE MONEY?
In fact I doubt the CLSC gives all that much money.
In fact, I get all the power, since I get all the words.
In fact, I don’t have that many more words to say except maybe everyone can calm down about borderline personality disorders.
And I think the way the crush got handled was a mess but if I were you, I’d follow my lead and lovingly forgive yourself. I lovingly forgive you, and will probably go on to blame myself on the whole thing every other Tuesday until it does not matter anymore.
Oh yah, and wash your lunch dishes and dust your filing cabinet and the poor goddamn headless wooden lady statue! For fuck’s sake! I still feel grateful for what you gave me, even if I never turn it into a brilliant screenplay, and even if I continue to struggle with lunch choices and sleeping and fulfilling my enormous potential for the rest of my life. I am sure I will always remember and cherish the many times I felt safe and seen in your windowless office, plus the satisfying smirks and laughter.
And I’ll miss these fucking letters. I guess they were more for me than they were for you. And maybe also for Benjamin Hunting who loved my sentence, My greatest gift is finding the trail of infinite grief and following it for infinity, but I thought it was too cheesy.
Letting go is no joke. I keep whining that I want a prize. At least everybody knows I win for the Best Erotic Transference on the Internet.
Plus Benjamin Hunting says, “The prize is the rest of your life.” And my époque baveuse has barely just begun.
Love you, good-bye, Erica.
BAM!
Subject: The Prize is the Rest of your life.
Dear Vincent,
So guess what? I found my cervix! Also found you on Facebook. Nice (dot, dot dot, In case you're wondering, I wouldn't necessarily not date someone who curled, lawnbowled and/or go-karted)
Never would have guessed your name though I'm sure in real life
(dot, dot, dot.
One of the many problems with
Professional Boundaries is
They don't tend to roll off the tongue.)
I suppose PC has never been your thing.
"40 is the new 30! And Down Syndrome kids are so cute, right?"
(dot, dot, dot. Yah, he really said this. Rolled right off his tongue.)
Lucky for you, your girlfriend looks like she’s very youthful! And such a glorious high achiever! Hope she has fun with the
(dot, dot, dot… let’s just pretend she’s off to save the manatees somewhere boring like Florida). There’s nothing like when your dreams come true.
Too bad your époque baveuse is already over. Seems a little premature.
(dot, dot, dot. You can say a slug is a bête baveuse and this means they are a slimy creature.
dot, dot, dot.
Yah, ten minutes before you promise yourself you’ll block somebody on Facebook forever, the best is to first stalk every available detail of their profile so you don’t miss any mourning of any bygone kinky era that stroking an exotic animal’s ass in some beautiful exotic place seems to evoke. And you don’t want to miss any girlfriends either, especially the ones who evoke your deep seated Mammoth Complex. Thoroughly peruse all the tiny girlfriends, from exotic places, or else ultra overachievers from nearby.)
Benjamin Hunting says that the cervix leads to Narnia. Your Facebook profile led me to paint over all of the Vincents on my wall and can all this self-inflicted torture.
The only Vincent left on the wall is, Two things I really believe in are Deep Cleans and Mondays without Vincent. Whatever that means.
One time, I wrote a deeply terrible and embarrassing poem called,
I cave in and pretend I’m fucking Vincent,
and one of the most embarrassing parts is,
"Professionals Boundaries mean that
I love you is pathology.
You get all the money.
And I get all the shame."
The sad and bitter part of me wants to say, DEAR VINCENT, HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE THE WHITE MAN IN THE ROOM WITH ALL THE POWER AND ALL THE MONEY?
In fact I doubt the CLSC gives all that much money.
In fact, I get all the power, since I get all the words.
In fact, I don’t have that many more words to say except maybe everyone can calm down about borderline personality disorders.
And I think the way the crush got handled was a mess but if I were you, I’d follow my lead and lovingly forgive yourself. I lovingly forgive you, and will probably go on to blame myself on the whole thing every other Tuesday until it does not matter anymore.
Oh yah, and wash your lunch dishes and dust your filing cabinet and the poor goddamn headless wooden lady statue! For fuck’s sake! I still feel grateful for what you gave me, even if I never turn it into a brilliant screenplay, and even if I continue to struggle with lunch choices and sleeping and fulfilling my enormous potential for the rest of my life. I am sure I will always remember and cherish the many times I felt safe and seen in your windowless office, plus the satisfying smirks and laughter.
And I’ll miss these fucking letters. I guess they were more for me than they were for you. And maybe also for Benjamin Hunting who loved my sentence, My greatest gift is finding the trail of infinite grief and following it for infinity, but I thought it was too cheesy.
Letting go is no joke. I keep whining that I want a prize. At least everybody knows I win for the Best Erotic Transference on the Internet.
Plus Benjamin Hunting says, “The prize is the rest of your life.” And my époque baveuse has barely just begun.
Love you, good-bye, Erica.
BAM!
 |
The Prize is the Rest of Your Life.
Follow Erica J. Schmidt on Facebook Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook Twitter: @mypelvicfloor I Let Go
Bodhisattva Business Ventures:
Deep Cleans by Erica J. Schmidt (@deepcleanswitherica) Instagram: @erica.j.schmidt Dear Vincent, All your sadness is in your lungs. Also the World is a Heartbreaker. |
