The Drugstore Date

For nearly a fortnight, I have been meaning to tell you all about the lovely and romantic Valentine's Day that I enjoyed with the Boatman.  We went on a date to the drugstore.  This happens to be an excellent way to keep your romance alive.  You can go to the drugstore with your loved one any day of the year.  If you do not have a loved one, the drugstore is the perfect place for you to find romance.

During your drugstore date, take your time through every aisle. That's what me and the Boatman did. Hand and hand, we perused the Hair Aisle, the Tooth Aisle, the Bad Digestion Aisle, the Stationary Aisle, the Family Planning Aisle.  The options for conversation were endless:  how to choose the perfect pair of tweezers, the perfect toothbrush, the perfect comb.    We shared intimate details with each other like the Boatman's struggles with dandruff and my struggles with toenail fungus.  Some people might say that these two afflictions are two sides of the same coin!  That's why the Boatman and I are so meant for each other.

In the greeting card aisle, we each read aloud a Heartfelt Valentine which we would not purchase.  This way we got to express our Heartfelt Feelings without spending too much money.  As the Boatman read me the Heartfelt Valentine, my heart beat fast and I blushed.  Poetry always does that to me.  So does the Boatman.

Me and the Boatman, at the peak of our romance.
We are at the airport, one of our other favourite date spots.

One of the most exciting features of the Drugstore Date is blood pressure machine.  Don't miss out.  Me and the Boatman indulged while we were waiting for the pharmacist to fill out  the Boatman's prescription for blue cold sore pills.  (For his oyster-shaped cold sore)  The suspense while we were waiting for the cuff to inflate was excruciating. My blood pressure was lower than the Boatman's, but my pulse was higher.  It must have been the heartfelt poetry.

If ever your romance wears out (which will never happen for me, but I try to think of others besides myself) , the blood pressure machine will always be there for you.  Most drugstores are open twenty-four hours a day.  What a gift.  While the cuff is inflating, you can smile at the cute white-coated pharmacist behind the counter.  He or she will be happy to answer your questions about kidney disease or thyroid inflammation.  This kind of discussion is always a real treat.

At our Drugstore Date, the Boatman and I got to wait in two line-ups.  One for the blue cold sore pills, and the regular lineup where we purchased one another's Special Gifts.  The Boatman's Special Gift to me was an emery board for my toenail fungus, a tube of toothpaste and paint-by-number eye shadow.  My Special Gift to the Boatman was an emery board even though he doesn't have toenail fungus, brandname Q-tips, and unscented aluminum-free biodegradable deodorant.   Standing in the lineup with the Boatman was just plain titillating.

Please note:  If you are going on a Drugstore Date by yourself, be sure to buy yourself a Special Gift. Choose something satisfying yet unregrettable.  Some trail mix, travel-sized vaseline, rechargeable batteries or a bottle of Perrier.  I myself am partial to brandname Q-tips, but only you can decide which Special Gift will do. 

Brandname Q-tips from Days Gone By

Some people think that when you fall in love, you become boring to hang out with.  That's totally bogus.  Me and my life are more interesting than ever.  The Drug Store Date is proof.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

The Kiss Test
Why I am like Jane Fonda
Mythological, Unconditional Love

The Day Yoga Almost Gave Me a Stroke

I had been practicing Mysore style with Darby for around two months.  During this time, I was dating the Vegan Life Coach.  The Vegan Life Coach was a devoted vegan and Ashtangi whose dharma was to become a finely tuned instrument of God’s love.  He liked to practice his dharma on me.  

While I was dating the Vegan Life Coach, I ate a great deal of salad.  I became very concerned with liberating my soul through the elimination of eggs and dairy products.  The Vegan Life Coach also recommended that I cut down on caffeine, since the stress induced by an elevated cortisol level had probably caused the large creases above my forehead.  He promised that an impeccable diet had the potential to counteract premature aging. I was twenty-one.   

Although I did my best to do what the Vegan Life Coach recommended, one day I got home to my apartment to find a large plate of cookies on the kitchen.  Although my roommate at the time absolutely wasn’t vegan, I was so tired of salad I could have eaten someone’s head.  Instead I ate three cookies. 

Soon after, I fell asleep.  Miserable chickens and groaning cows haunted my dreams.  When I awoke, I couldn’t get up.  My ceiling was spinning.  I couldn’t tell if my lights were on or off.  My neck was all tingly.  I couldn’t feel my right hand.  I felt thankful that I lived right across from the hospital, but I didn’t know how I would get there.

With my left hand, I called the Vegan Life Coach.  He wasn’t there.  He was probably taking his daily two-hour nap which was supposed to improve digestion and cure forehead wrinkles.  I left the vegan life coach a message.  I told him that Very Bad Karma had come.  I had eaten the cookies.  Now I had nerve damage.  Probably it was also from Backbends.  And shoulderstand.  And the cookies.  I was having a brain tumour.  A stroke.  Paralysis was just around the corner.  They would have to amputate.   

I hung up the phone and decided I absolutely needed to get to the hospital.  Somehow, I got myself out of bed.  Then I got back in.  This happened four or five times.  Each time I would make it a little closer to the door.

I was halfway to the door when my roommate came home.

“Those cookies weren’t vegan,” I told him.  “I am going to the hospital.” 

My roommate told me what was in the cookies. One of the ingredients rhymed with Garijuana.   Suddenly, feeling returned to my left arm. The Vegan Life Coach called.  I went to his place and he helped me cleanse my palate with salad.  The avocados were very tasty. 

 The End.

The Vegan Life Coach is a Yoga Teacher:

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt

The Benefits of a Vegan Life Coach
Are you strong or are you skinny?
The Sperm Cleanse

More Changes from 2011 and an Ode to the Down-and-Out-Club

In Halifax I met an excellent podiatrist who is helping me cure my toenail fungus from far away and long ago.

The Boatman’s mother bought me a pair jeans.  Besides yoga gear, I haven’t worn pants for over two years.  In 2009, I had a Terrible Pants Day which I blamed on my Thighs and un-raw food and so all my pants were gone.  The Boatman’s mother was perplexed by my lack of jeans and she thought that as a northern hemisphere inhabitant, I should absolutely own some.  Because it is absolutely necessary to get along spectacularly with one’s boyfriend’s mother, I agreed.  Now I own black jeans in which or in whom I can sit cross-legged in public without fear of exposing my crotch. 

I had something un-astute to say about my lost Diva Cup.  Against many odds, I had the good sense to censor it almost entirely.  This might be a sign of change, or it might not.  Either way, as far as the Diva Cup is concerned, all is well.  In the world and close to my uterus. 

And finally, I am sad to report that the ladies of the Down-and-Out Club have dispersed across Canada and across the ocean.  The Down-and-Out-Club consists of me and two other beautiful women who used to practice  altogether at Mark and Joanne Darby’s Sattva Yoga Shala in Montreal.

Every morning after Mysore practice, the members of the Down-and-Out-Club would meet for coffee.  Sometimes they would discuss being Down and Out.  Sometimes they would discuss Kapotasana.

 



Not sure who the artist is here. Found it on the Daily cup of Yoga.  I love this picture although it doesn't look very much like me and Darby.  If there are copyright issues involved, please let me know.  Otherwise, (and regardless), thank you and kudos to the artist)



On January 1^st, 2011, at 10 AM, the Down-and-out-club broke into Sattva Yoga Shala and did 108 Sun Salutations.  They held Downward Dog for 3 breaths each time.  Sattva Yoga Shala is the        studio of the world renonwn Ashtanga Teachers Mark and Joanne Darby. Two members of the down-and-out-club had keys because they washed Mark Darby’s floors in exchange for free yoga memberships.  When the sun salutations were finished, it was past noon.  The Down-and-Out club went for coffee on Ste. Catherine’s street where Montréal was just starting to wake up.  Over coffee and some unnutritious delicacy, they watched the people bustle in the New Year’s energy of the bright afternoon.  Probably most of the time, they remembered that they were each one of them, mostly down-and-out.  But so far, on that year, they had Absolutely No Regrets.  It was a good feeling. 
 

I look forward to the day when the Down-and-Out-Club is even less down-and-out than they are now.  (You see, 2011 saw each one of them shed some significant layers of down-and-outness.  Perhaps this was thanks to Ashtanga Yoga.  Or perhaps it was thanks to coffee and un –nutritious delicacies).  In any case, one day the Down-and-Out-Club will reunite in its entirety.  I hope it is somewhere Warm and Exotic, but even a shitty coffee shop will do.  Sipping coffee, and picking at un-nutritious delicacies, they’ll talk about how they used to be Down-and-Out, and they’ll talk about Kapotasana.  They’ll  think about their Whole Lives and how, so far, they have Absolutely No Regrets.  And it will be such a good feeling. 

The End.

Drawing by Sara E. Enquist, D-A-O member and talented illustrator of my self-help book, I Let Go
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook 
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Toot My Own Horn
High School Reunion, Part One
Property of Facebook

 

 

Year-end Review: I Toot My Own Horn

Since it is the end of the year, I feel compelled to write an entirely astronomical post as a Final, Magnanimous, Culmination of 2011's victories and catastrophes.
 
For about five minutes, I was paralyzed at the beginning of the second sentence, but thanks to the generous inspiration from the Big Black Dog, I am able to resume.

Big Black Dog, Magnanimous Source of Inspiration

I would like to point out the both 2011 and 2010 concluded with Relatively Astronomical Cold Sores (RACS).  It is comforting to observe such consistencies as the years go by.

The Boatman with his Oyster-Sized Cold Sore acquired in the Future, February 2012. Thank you, the Boatman for magnanimously sharing your cold sore with the interwebs.

In other consistencies:

A) I am still practicing Ashtanga Yoga.  I am still looking for all three bandhas.  At the end of 2010, I was just getting back into second series since I had to drastically modify my practice in the summer due to a broken arm.  I have continued with second pretty consistently throughout the year, although there have been intermittent periods during which I've experimented with going back to Primary, since I have been working through an injury around my left SI joint and hip.  This injury has not yet completely dissipated; however, I have returned to intermediate. This proves to be un-disastrous as long as I exert thorough caution during backbends.

B)  My hair is about the same.  Large and unruly.  And I twirl it all the time.

 

C)  I am about the same size.  Same height, same weight.  It was not supposed to be my intention to lose 30 pounds in 2011.  And if it was, well, that would have been stupid.  I don't think I hate my thighs as much as I did last year.  Some of the most amazing yogis have abundant thighs.  Plus my thighs are turning out to be more important than I expected.  I hope that they are absorbing some cosmic love.  Last spring, I spilled coffee on my left thigh and now it has a permanent purple mark.

D) I still have not finished my novel Two Spines.  I pulled it out on two occasions this year, each time for a couple of months.  Both times I stagnated around page 50.  I think that there is enough love inside of me to bring this project to fruition, but I guess something is still holding me back.

This probably marks the end of the year's consistencies.  A whole bunch of things changed this year.  Even my name changed twice.  Voilà a summary of changes:

aa)  My Name.  For a brief period I had a blog in which I named myself Erica S. Natch.  My father pointed out that this probably wouldn't help my employability so I deleted it.  On Facebook, I became Exuberant J. Bodhisattva and so far Mark Zuckerman or Mark Zuckerberg or whatever his name is hasn't cracked down on me. 

bb)  I went from being pretty much unemployed to working approximately three jobs twice.  Money remains an elusive concept, but certainly not as elusive as this time last year.  This time last year, I had just quit a job that entailed stopping people on the cold streets of Montreal and trying to convince them to donate money that was supposed to eradicate child poverty and prevent female circumcision in developing countries.  The pay was ten dollars per hour.  Every day around lunch time when yet another person on the street didn't want to talk to me I would look at them with a Sad Pathetic Expression and they would ask me what was wrong and I would cry.  So I had to leave that job.  In January I was so broke that I couldn't afford to take the bus and I would walk from one unlikely employment opportunity to another, wearing unmatching mittens that Simon, my boyfriend at the time found for me on the street.  Fortunately, life picked up and became less destitute.  Looking back on times like these, everyone always says that they wouldn't have been able to get through it without the support of family and friends.  It sounds cheesy, but it's true.  Thus, a heartfelt thank you to my family and friends, especially my sister, the founding members of the Down-and-Out club, and Fern.

cc)  I quit puking in my mouth and in the toilet.  The puking-in-your-mouth phenomenon is slightly nauseating and confusing for most people.  I wrote a little post about it here:  Day 69 of Not Puking in Your Mouth. Feel free to read it, or not. What's really important is on March 18th, after years of trying so hard and then failing, I made a pact with another friend with an eating disorder, and together we renounced our puking endeavours.  This changed everything.  

dd)  I took a fair number of long breaks from drinking.  I don't consider myself an alcoholic, but I'm not sure my drinking choices have always been in my best interest.  So I've been taking many breaks, and overall, alcohol seems to be losing its appeal.

ee)  I fell in love twice.   And out of love once. See ff) and  hh).

ff)  I stopped sleeping with Simon.  We wrote a book together, and that was amazing and unregrettable, but No More Sex With Simon was essential to my evolution.

gg) I finished two books.  An epistolary novel I wrote with Simon called The Little Savage and the Hermit, and my very first self-help book I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt.  We are still looking for a publisher for the Little Savage and the Hermit, since so far, Mark Zuckerberg hasn't expressed interest.  For the self-help book, a dear friend from the former Down-and-Out Club is going to illustrate it.  We're planning on self-publishing early in the New Year.  Thank you to James Altucher for suggesting that one can produce a self-help book in such a short period of time.  And for the great advice on self-publishing

hh)  I went to my friend Fern's wedding where I met the Boatman on a boat.  Now I live in Halifax with the Boatman and his Big Black Dog.  Maybe this was impulsive, but I am at the age when Impulsive Things are allowed.  I miss Montréal, especially my friends and the old yoga studio, but overall I feel like I am the happiest I have been in a Long Time.

ii)  I started teaching yoga more than I ever have in my life.  In one of his blog posts, Tim Miller shared a quote about how for the first couple of years of teaching, you should probably pay people to let them teach you.  So far nothing horrendous has taken place in my classes and I certainly accept and appreciate payment, but it's a useful quote to remember.  Thank you to everyone in the Halifax yoga scene for welcoming me and helping me learn.

 jj) I got some articles published on Recovering Yogi and Elephant Journal.  The one that got me the most famous was a response to a bunch of blogosphere criticism against Kino Macgregor, who I admire and adore from afar:

Kinogate

Unfortunately, in the process I made a bad-woman of a fellow Ashtangi blogger who is actually a wonderful and entertaining writer, if somewhat opinionated.  Perhaps this renders me unsattvic and/or hypocritical.  But I thought that Kino needed to be defended.  

kk)  I started this blog.  I have thoroughly enjoyed my introduction to the Ashtanga Blogosphere and I religiously read Nobel's (Nobel in the Dragon's Den) and Claudia's (Earth Yogi) posts.  My own blog lacks a bit of direction and drishti, but it was always meant to be a low pressure activity.  I don't usually force myself to write everyday, just when I am inspired to share something.  I find that whenever I turn something into a Project with a Clear Purpose and Intention and Anticipated Results, I become remarkably distressed.  See here for the day I almost died writing a self-help book:  Yesterday I Almost Died Writing a Self-Help Book.  Immensely and Devastated are two frequently used words when it comes to discussing writing projects.  Thus, it is with caution that I embark on Projects with Clear Purposes and Intentions and Anticipated Results.  But despite all of my creative angst, if I am objective,  this year has been one of the most creatively productive years of my life. Thus, as I advise all my readers in my self-help book, I should just let go...  My only Official and Specific Writing Goal for 2012 is to learn how to use the word magnanimous properly.

Poetic Pause.
 
And it's over.

This, my friends, sums up all of the year's Immense and Mammoth Victories and Immense and Devastating Catastrophes.  My Magnanimous Post is over.  I am finished Tooting My Own Horn.

I invite you to toot yours! 

Much love, EJB.  XOM.
 
The End.

Me and the Boatman, gazing at the Magnanimous Sky Friends

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, by Erica J. Schmidt
 
2013: An Ecstatic Year for the Exuberant Bodhisattva
2014: Year of the Spiritual Pants
2015: You No Look Back
 

Yesterday I Almost Died Writing A Self-Help Book

It was supposed to be about my nine compartments of gurus (COGS).  I wanted to tell everyone about my gurus.  The sky friends and the vegan life coach and Darby and James Altucher.  

About.com says that Guru is a math equation with a plus sign.  

Gu + Roo=Guru.  

“Gu” means "dark gooey attachment."  Attachments are terrible things that make you steal hair elastics from Loblaws and not recycle your peanut butter jar.   Fortunately, there is also a roo, which means “a (liberating) ray of light.”  About.com puts brackets around liberating.  That’s probably because you have to choose for your gurus to liberate you.  Or not.  Take the brackets off.  Or leave them on.  Find the eternal and internal spaciousness of your pelvis.  Or forget about it.  Steal the hair elastics.  Or pay for them.  The peanut butter jar has a similar story, but it involves a sink and a clear blue recycling bag. 

Yesterday, I must have left the brackets around the liberating because all I could see was the goo around my pelvis and I couldn't write a thing.  The goo was so hideous and abundant that me and the dog and the Boatman almost drowned. 

I didn't want to resort to stealing hair elastics or throwing away the peanut butter jar, so I emailed James Altucher.   He was supposed to be in the guru self-help book that I was supposed to write in 3 to 7 days.  I got the whole idea from James's book "I was blind, but now I see." (P.S.  I have noticed that very successful people are very prompt in responding to emails. I put brackets around this observation, but I could quite easily take them off.) I told James about the goo, and James was very empathetic and told me to focus on what I had to do for the rest of the day.  "That's all there is." 

Some days are really terrible for writing about gurus.  You'd do much better to make hummus.  So the Boatman and I went to Canadian tire,  and we picked out a blender and that's what we did.  Tomorrow's another day for liberating rays of light, but for now we have veggies and dip.  

The End.

The book got written! Hurray!
I Let Go by Erica J. Schmidt, illustrated by Sara E. Enquist

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

You Cling To Things Until They Die
I read Choose Yourself by James Altucher and My Oxytocin Levels Increased Immediately
List

 
 

Bakasana...

83 years old!

25.9 years old!

I look forward to the pink pant suit.

The End.

30.33 years old. Hampi, India.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

Now I am in Delhi
The Benefits of an Ashtanga Yoga Practice, Part Two
You Cling To Things Until They Die

Property of Facebook

Preamble:  I used to hope that I could somehow transform my Facebook statuses into wonderful and engaging material. Then I could publish it and create a great scandal since Facebook apparently owns everything I post.  So here it is.  My poetic lines, compiled.  Enjoy!  I look forward to the imminent lawsuit.

Property of Facebook

by Erica J. Schmidt 

She can only find eight ways of looking at a goldfish.  Now she is learning about low-frequency words.  Today, we get out of jail free.  If you look, you might find the joy of sex in your school bag.  Enjoy everything in moderation, except for yoga and protected sex.  Ensure that you release your groins and do laundry before Ricky Bennet and Jesus Christ have birthdays.  Hurry up, or else you’ll miss out on the immaculate conception.  Tis the season for kidneys and bladders.  Urine, not tinsel.  Falala. 

Now she is giving her garbage can a shower.  In the meantime, she wraps herself in straps above her traps and under her crotch.  Stopping at the kitchen, she facilitates sex between cabbage and kitchen appliances. 

Liver, she says, take rest with the merry gentlemen.  Despite this, she wonders what all the cool people in Montréal are doing for New Year's, with the hope that they’ll ask her to participate.  She wants to make a bake with a bean in.  How very cool.  She wants to bake a cake with a bean in it AND prepare her relationship with consonants.  That’s what she  imagines the cool people are doing, but she could be very, very wrong.

Today, it seems she must run away before her fertility turns to mushrooms.  A cartoon about a pinball is teaching her how to count to twelve.  With rhythm and song.  She peaked at ten and stagnated at eleven.  She stagnates in Mushroomland. 

Listen to the voices of psoriasis.  The ulcer potion tastes like tree.  Brew piss in your bed.  This friend is false.  False friends.  If nobody understands, then nobody wins.  Trevor Fraser wins dandelion tea.

The dormouse said, Feed Your Head and you forgot.  Notes may have bodies, and still be of no help.  Mushrooms cannot be inundated.  No more clenching her asscheeks.  Or his.  Hereby, she solemnly declares.  Here, she plagiarizes a man who has not yet killed himself.

"The afternoon passed as slowly and as painfully as a walnut sized kidney stone."

Mushrooms cannot be inundated.  Once she dreamt she hopped like a crocodile, but it was in outer space and there were clouds in her coffee.  She wanted it to go on.  She wanted to go commando.  Then she maxed out on self-indugence and hence did not elaborate.  So much depends upon sewers and REM sleep.  A queer erotic thesaurus.  Temporary can last a long long time.  Longer than it takes to move beyond Mao with breasts.  Many people never move beyond Mao with breasts.  Or that’s how it seems.  Things may change after their unborn foetuses sweeps away their  fungus and digestive organs.  Someone tagged her as vegetarian abalone.  She stepped to the right of her left hemisphere.  Lu and J Dick to the end.  Unless some crazy tropical disease gets them. 

Two weeks later she returned from her right hemisphere trip.  In a dream, she hopped around like a crocodile, but it was in outer space and there were clouds in her coffee.  Twinkle, twinkle, little sweet.  Rest in peace in the land of Cud.   A brain is a mediocre commodity. Non-public-nuisance-fresh-eggs. 

Unlike, unlike, unlike.  Buckyballs are perplexing and non-addictive.  Thank you for your compassion.  It was better than the clap.  The J. Dick room is now open for practice.  Have a great lunch.  The head she fell on was the size of a sandwich.  The sandwich he ate was the size of her head.  All in all, it was an excellent lesson in non-attachment. 

Everyone is saying EPIC these days.  1000 folded red napkins.  1000 grams of fibre.  1000 years of Chaturanga.  I am yours til the pelvis tilts. Art Deco and Delicious Psoas. 

Hip, hip hurray!  She caught the bouquet!  Does anyone know of a reputable hypnotist?  His raincoat could be less attractive, but then it probably wouldn’t smell as bad.  R.I.P. blender.  Every morning, groins are different.  Welcome to a Domestic Holiday.  No papaya seeds are necessary.  The groins display unlikely stoicism, but the voice eludes them.  Legs up a tree. 

Shit went up the drain and she felt the need to evacuate.  Bad Lady.  This has been a short-lived, inefficient vocation, with questionable hygiene.  With Great Conviction.  Too invincible.  Uninvincing.  There’s infection in the forks. 

Ring-a ding-ding.  It was a five-star day at a two-star hotel.  The beautiful and charming can be physically physically dyslexic and forever alienated from 103 million deep breaths.  Worse things have happened in On-terrible.  Patents, trademarks and smoked salmon. 

There are dead pigeons everywhere. The kapots are kaput. And every time you go swimming you release two teaspoons of urine into the water. Every time. Whether you want to or not. Happy Labour Day.  Happy Labour Day to the Hawks and the Kapotasanas.  Spank a needle fish in Marshallese.  The pigeon looked up, the pigeon looked down, the pigeon ate bread and turned around.  Chloramines form form when chlorine combines with urea and/or fecal matter.  Sniff.  Someone should make the yamas more practical.  Knowledge isn’t a contest. 

The drain is fixed and now she’s  back.  She’ll never wear pants again.  Pas de pantalons.  Someone should also buy her more pantyhoes. Hos? How.  Outside her apartment, there are still dead pigeons everywhere.  Although they possess wings, they luxuriate in gravity.  One of them has an open wound.  She could obtain a free lunch, but the Buddha wouldn’t approve.  As a rule, the Buddha does not approve.  But the Buddha is always right.  Stevie Wonder too.  Mrs. Vanden Bosch, sometimes. 

Ninety Minutes of Weekly Anonymity.  During this time, she breaks it down, trying to be a real, funky lov-ah.  Unfortunately, God didn’t give her the right face.  Fortunately, everyone can benefit from the vibrations.  She is fucking neurological pathways.  The joke is old, but the benefits are eternal.  Her overhead costs are over her head.  She subsists on Lice and Rentils. 

Party Time.  Lice and Rentils.  The people in this room have several pink elephants on the go.  They are waiting for Santa Claus. If he doesn’t show up by nine o’clock, they’ll begin to make collages.  With the right attitude, she can feel fortunate and prosperous.  Despite his nipples being bigger than her breasts.  It’s important to be unfacetious at times.  So that not everyone on Earth will bring immense pain. 

You can't spend the rest of your life with the tip of your tongue stuck to your alveolar ridge. You, I or she.  Hence, she employs her pulmonic egressive airstream mechanism. Cleansing the nerves, before the kitchen.   Complete liver function is useful whilst dropping back. 

Life may not be the party we had hoped for, but while we are here, we may as well decorate mason jars.  Doing so will change your life as much as the diva cup. 

Schoolwork is like dirty diapers.  Although shitty, you’re better off dealing with them slash it.  Naomi has learned to make Brussel Sprouts.  Nothing can ever take anything away from you, but just the same, you may as well let it all go.  She is still changing diapers.  Some dis-equilibrium is self-perpetuating. 

Strapped into Supta Baddha Konasana reading, "Comment faire l'amour avec un Nègre sans se fatiguer." Only six pages to go. Anything Is Possible When You Skip Linguistics.

The End.

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I LET GO by Erica J. Schmidt

My name is Erica. I love coffee.

The Ocean Invertebrate Personality Quiz

Deep Unyielding Depression