Dear Vincent, There is more love on the wall, than there are Vincents and than there are fucks.

Tuesday, October, 10, 2018 

Dear Vincent, 

There is more love on the wall, than there are Vincents, and than there are fucks.  You imaginary sandwich rejection email got 155 hits in two days, and four likes on Facebook, and four loves. I recently bought a new shower curtain, and I’m pleased with it.  Mostly I guess I am doing okay, but I miss you.

Love, Erica.

Saturday, October 27, 2018

Dear Vincent,

Happy Saturday!

I slept in until 6:08. Now it is 9:30 and so far I have given myself four orgasms. I feel a bit on edge. 

Maybe because last night I dreamt I hooked up with Simon, and Simon is dead.

Monday is my birthday and though it has been my most creative and lucrative year so far, I feel mournful about a series of vague and specific things.

I finished inhaling The Buddha and the Borderline book, and I'd recommend it. It seems they call it borderline because it means the border of neurotic and psychotic, and I find this deeply unflattering. The author’s happy ending was Buddhism. I tried that in 2008. The book contained a great deal about accepting two opposing truths at the same time.

the buddha & the borderline by Kiera Van Gelder

Last year on my birthday, the Dead Inside Man made me ejaculate on my sister’s living room floor. The next day I puked in my mouth while sucking his cock. What a highlight. This year, there's no fuck in sight as tends to happen. I miss being your one-sided pen pal. I hope your life is beautiful and exquisite.

Love, Erica.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Dear Vincent,

I am walking past your windowless office. It is my 33rd birthday. I am wearing my red raincoat, and calculating how many of the six people I more or less fucked at the age of 32 have sent me birthday wishes. So far I am at 2 out of 6. So 33.33 etc percent. Franklin’s wishes were threefold, but all emoticons. I guess I never told you I hooked up with Franklin. In fact, it was quite stellar. Then they pretty much ghosted.

Love, Erica. Birthday Selfie

Birthday Selfie

Saturday, November 3, 2018

Dear Vincent,

Can you please cure me of the whole thing through one mediocre slobbery kiss and a boring Saturday afternoon lying on the couch watching sports?

Love, Erica.

Monday, November 6, 2018

Dear Vincent,

It was a four-orgasm morning once again.

Though I woke up at 4:51 a.m. without an alarm, it felt like someone had just set off the smoke detector. From ovulation on, I feel like I need drugs. I hope you had a nice weekend. My apartment is not quite as immaculate as it used to be, but almost. I think I will go back to writing you letters on the Internet.

Love, Erica.

Dear Readers,

Please cure me of this whole thing by sending your imaginary emails to me or to Vincent at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

Thanks.

Love, Erica.

The Wizard says, I can't go back, I don't know how it works.

Also, Your Life is of Supreme Importance.

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Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.

Dear Vincent, Love you. Good-bye.

Dear Vincent, I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini that was on sale in a basket, 5 for $1, on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon.

Dear Vincent, I missed you so much. Do you want to break up?

Dear Vincent,

I missed you so much. Do you want to break up?

Once upon a time, I was all ready to unleash the deepest powers of my vagina with a zucchini, but then my vagina started to bleed, and so the era of power was short-lived, and now it seems extremely far away.

Polyamorous Zucchini Sexting.

Once upon a time there was a well-adjusted fridge with a manageable amount of leaked soy sauce, and spilled mustard. The well-adjusted fridge was filled with well-adjusted food that suggested that my clients François and Marie truly loved themselves, and each other, and this I do not doubt. For example, there were six different kinds of homemade preserves, and a glass Tupperware of a thawing and clearly nourishing cream soup, and abundant jars and containers of almonds, and sunflower seeds, and walnuts, and fresh, inviting vegetables, including two large zucchinis which I photographed and texted to Sexy Motorcycle George and Freshly Divorced Love of 2009 who I now Call Sexy Motorcycle the Second, and I call this sort of texting, Polyamorous Zucchini Sexting.

The well-adjusted fridge

Once upon a time, my right knee was swollen and covered with baking soda. Broken Delicate Miniature Horse Ornament Client Linda did not notice that my eyes were swollen too, and also slightly bruised. Before I could scour her mildewed shower grout with a toothbrush, Linda asked me to examine her scalp to see if it looked like she was going bald, and as far as I could tell, she did not seem any more bald than usual, but I did not think this was the best way of putting things, and thus with very vague tact, I said, “Well, we all lose our hair in the summer. Just like your cat.” Linda’s cat’s hair was all over the shelves of her fridge. Linda was afraid that her hair falling out is the sign of some terrible disease. On a post-it stuck to her computer, Linda had scrawled a list entitled, "Erica needs," and my needs were summarized as baking soda, dish soap, vinegar, sponges, paper towel, and a toothbrush. I think if you told me you had a cat, and that its hair was all over the bottom of your fridge, and that you watched golf, all this could cure some of my undying love, though my sad and empty fridge, however free of cauliflower chunks, is certainly not that well-adjusted either.  

Love, Erica.

*Names and crucial identifying details have been altered due to excellent professional boundaries. Send your letters to me, or to Vincent, or to Oprah. The top-secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.

p.s. Vincent is my therapist and I have that thing where you love your therapist and Vincent comes back from vacation tomorrow.

Once upon a time, I was all ready to unleash the deepest powers of my vagina with a zucchini, but then

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Dear Vincent, If Oprah does not invite you to sit in her decadent plushy green chairs
 in the middle of the Oprah Forest to discuss your beautiful soul's beautiful hero's journey,
 it's possible this might be a blessing. It's possible you might just be spared. Love, Erica.

Dear Vincent,

I just had a reasonably life-changing orgasm with a medium-sized yellow zucchini
 that was on sale in a basket,
 5 for $1,
on the outskirts of marché Jean Talon.
 

Dear Vincent,

I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you
 last Tuesday, November 21. 
All the joy lasted for approximately 39 hours and 17 minutes.

Dear Vincent, During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend's soothing and maternal bosom of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home

Dear Vincent,

During my month-long hiatus without you, I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm. And I basked in my Nun Friend’s soothing and maternal bosom embrace of unconditional love, and I got a cleaning buzz. I think I am going to make it. Welcome home.

Childhood memories equal, the fairy tale, The Princess and The Frog. I remember the frog, crouched on the Princess’s dinner table, and lapping up peas from on the Royal Family’s golden plate.

 Are we able to accept all the ugly things without the promise that deep down the ugly things are actually beautiful and that one day they’ll transform out of being an ugly frog or an ugly toad?

Toads, in my opinion, are a little bit uglier than the frogs.

Can we love the things that are

inherently and likely

ugly forever?

For example, the toads, or else the thick and cakey fungus under certain people’s toenails?

A Shiny Chrome Orgasm is when you polish the chrome of the faucet of your sink to the point that the sight is orgasmic.

Shiny Chrome Orgasm

A friend pointed out that combined with the taps, the whole thing is rather phallic, and isn’t that a little bit exciting?

Childhood memories equal Mrs. Vanden Bosch’s Grade One Halloween Concert. I am dressed up as a beautiful princess, but our song is about a field full of pumpkins. My best friend Ellen gets to be the special pumpkin with the solo. Of this, I am exceedingly jealous. The song is about some special pumpkin who has some special magical way of singing the words, the Boo-Hoo-Hoo. Maybe this turns frogs into handsome princes. Or maybe it burns the whole field down. In any case, I am devastated that I don’t get to sing the Prestigious Pumpkin Boo-hoo-hoo solo. Even before I skipped grade two and was irreparably labelled the Strange and Gifted child, I felt that surely I deserved all the main parts.

And the Princess, she felt like she did not deserve to have to go to bed with the ugly frog. Except the ugly frog had rescued her precious golden ball from the bottom of the pond, and in return he’d convinced the princess to make quite an elaborate promise.

“Promise me,” said the ugly frog. “That you will love me. That you’ll let me be your friend and play with you. Make me a place at your table where I will eat from your plate and drink from your cup. Then, take me to your bed and we can sleep peacefully together.”

Some people might say this qualifies as a little bit of coercion. The Princess was crying very hard when she lost her ball, and the frog sort of pounced upon her vulnerability. And it was in the olden days, and once she’d already said yes, she was not allowed to change her mind about taking the frog to bed.

So first the poor princess was helpless because her golden ball had fallen to the bottom of the pond.

And then she was helpless because her heart’s desire depended upon an overwhelming and impossible promise.

This story does not leave me feeling very equipped.

Place your ugly frog upon a silky and exquisite pillow, and there will emerge your dashing tender-eyed prince.

And

Or

Ever since I went off Prozac, my brain’s been invaded by a voice.

And the voice comes ready with a hand.

And the hand is ready to slap.

The voice really wants to be the main part. Sometimes the voice won’t shut up until the hand wacks me on the face over and over again. The voice wants everyone to hear and know its rage and how excruciatingly disappointed and disgusted and at the end of it rope that it feels with, well,

I guess me.

And the hand keeps slapping because it’s so set on the belief that no one will ever understand me, and this is what I deserve.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

I still cannot remember the line about why the Main Special Gifted Pumpkin was so special and gifted.

All the palaces in the fairy tales look exactly the same.

My nun friend has the softest cheeks and the most soothing bosom. I saw her at a funeral, and she said so many nice things to me. It was like I was at my own funeral.

“Oh, Erica,” she said. “It is so good to see you. You’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.”

I cannot repeat what my Nun Friend said without weeping, if somewhat delicately. Her words, they shut up the voice and they canned the hand for one whole week. And I got a cleaning buzz, and I invented the Shiny Chrome Orgasm.

I forgot to say that the princess was the youngest of the seven daughters. The youngest and the most beautiful. And she loved to throw her golden ball up in the air and then catch it. Once she got married, I wonder if she kept throwing her golden ball up in the air. Throwing it up in the air, and then catching it.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Welcome home, Vincent!

There is probably something symbolic about the golden ball falling to the bottom of the pond.

Our golden balls are falling to the bottom of the pond all the time.

Main Special Gifted Pumpkin sings, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

All the Generic Pumpkins sing, “The Boo-Hoo-Hoo.”

Oh Erica, you’re so beautiful. Don’t ever change. Stay just the way you are.

In therapy, I always get to have the main part, and surely, this is one reason why I like it.

Welcome home, Vincent.

Love, Erica.

P.S. In fact, once she married the prince, the princess kept her golden ball safe and sound on a purple cushion, under a glass dome. Cause what if the ball fell into the pond again and some better frog prince showed up. The End.

Please send your imaginary emails to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.



Grade One. Surely I deserved all the main parts.

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Rumplestiltskin


Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.


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, My last orgasm felt like it was healing for my kidneys.

Dear Vincent,

My last orgasm felt like it was healing for my kidneys.

How is your vacation going?

Everyone in Montreal is relatively ecstatic because the world is melting and the weather, it is no longer exactly horrific.

As for me, I get to have a cleaning buzz. Sometimes when you do the same thing over and over again, even it hurts your forearms, then you get to have a buzz. How nice for me to get to have a cleaning buzz today at 6:03 p.m. I am laughing at myself having a cleaning buzz as I cross Rivard Street on the way down Mont-Royal.

Being a cleaner is like getting paid to be a person. I think that’s what everyone wants. To get to be a person, whoever you are, and get paid for it. I am laughing at myself once again.

Love, Erica.

Vincent is on vacation, but you can still send him your imaginary emails. Or you can send them to me. The secret email address is ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Hope you are living the dream and having your favourite kind of cleaning buzz. Love, Erica.

Living the dream.


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Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21
Dear Vincent, Are you lonely? Do you have a pain body?
Dear Vincent, Looks like you got some sun.

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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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.)

Dear Vincent, Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might just ask if you too are a Scorpio, and if so, is it your birthday.

Dear Vincent,

Today I might tell you that I love you, or else I might just ask if you too are a Scorpio, and if so, is it your birthday. Yesterday I got a bit pissed off at my social worker. We were analyzing my answers to a sheet on self-care. I did not score very high on the line about going to a museum or a cultural experience. I do not want to go to a museum or a cultural experience. I want a sustainable sense of relevance and stability, affirmation and orgasms. Also, I want to feel safe.

For homework, the Social Worker told me to make a daily list of three things I am grateful for. A Grat List. Hate that shit. Grat lists make me feel oppressed, and like I am an underachiever. And a terrible person because I am not the single mother of a dying baby with cancer and no legs, and yet still, I seem to suffer.

Last week I saw three professionals regarding my mental health. The Social Worker told me to eat lunch, and generously wrote this down on a post-it note, smiley face and everything. My GP said to focus on protein and the psychiatrist said to do something creative, and that my struggles seem to stem from my personality traits. What do you mean, Dr. Perrier? Once I gain a sustained sense of relevance and stability, affirmation and orgasm, someone should give me 110 dollars an hour to sit in a windowless office and tell people they’re wonderful, and to have a bath, treat themselves to a goldfish, and go to a museum or a cultural experience.

Instead of a Gratitude List, one of my friends recommends a Self-Congratulations List. Items for the Self-Congratulations List equal

Eating something other than Chocolate Covered Almonds for Lunch.

Not Crying when two clients revoke your life purpose and announce that this week is in fact, not a good time for you to wipe the pubes off the sides of their toilets.

Insert something responsible such as invoices, flossing, signing up to pay for electricity and/or purchasing an expensive battery for your smoke alarm nearly two months after you moved into your apartment.

While I was on Prozac, I think I wrote a blog post about the Self-Congratulations List which I referred to as something very frightening and that was the Ta-Dah List.

While I was on Prozac, before it made me twitchy and suicidal, I think I was more grateful, more open to museums and to cultural experiences, less begrudging about taking out the recycling and more pleased with my Self-Congratulations Lists. My personality traits were approximately the same. My boundaries on the internet were approximately the same.

The Social Worker says I put a lot upon my shoulders.

Wouldn’t it be fun if we both ended up being Scorpios, and ran into each other at a museum or a cultural experience?

According to the Tarot cards, I should not send you this email for real, although I always want to. I’ll see you in your windowless office in approximately two hours and forty-five minutes. I’ll be wearing my red raincoat.

Love, Erica.

You too can write imaginary emails to Vincent. The project is called "Mondays without Vincent" and the secret email address is: ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)

Vincent will be delighted to hear from you. He will write back as soon as he can.

Much love, Erica.

This photo was taken before I could include "Shower" or "Got Dressed"
 on my Self-Congratulations List

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Three Easy Strategies for Feeling Smug and On Top of Life
Dear Vincent, Can you hold me?
Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.