Clean and Elegant

Clean and Elegant

Friday, 16 February 2018

Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you another letter, and it is deeply sorrowful.


Dear Vincent,

Sorrowful Simon has written you another letter, and it is deeply sorrowful. I told him you were going on vacation, and that I wouldn’t see you for a month. And that I knew the rope he was talking about, and that I’d been at the end of it, as recently as yesterday at 7:25 a.m, the morning of the New Moon, and yet another Eclipse that was supposed to change your life.

Yesterday I googled, “How to kill your inner drama queen.” The Christian View says, “a drama queen often uses gossip, slander, and manipulation to receive the attention she desires, but God calls us to a humble and selfless life.” Killing my Inner Drama Queen, IDQ some call it, seems about as futile as trying to fix the internet in India. It will never be four G’s. Maybe you’ll land one G. More likely it will consistently take you five to forty-seven minutes to load up Facebook. All your Skype calls will bite the dust.

Dear Sorrowful Simon,

People will tell you it gets better, and I’m not sure that it does, but I do know that it does change. And every once in a while, you’ll get a good day, or a reasonable afternoon, or a tolerable few minutes. I have a saying that goes, we’ll take that good day, however it comes.

This morning I googled, “How to stop loving your therapist.”

Psychology Today suggests, “Perhaps, since traditional therapists can seem somewhat scholarly and detached, it’s fun to imagine them dropping their guard (and their pants) and acting with breathless, unrestrained passion.” I would tend to agree.

Psychedinsanfrancisco says, “If you’re in therapy right now, I would put money on the fact that your therapist is in love with you. My old professor used to say, ‘I fall madly in love with each client. In the rare instance that I’m not in love, something is very wrong.’” This makes me feel somewhat better. I love you too, Vincent. And wish you a wonderful vacation. God calls us to a humble and selfless life.

My friend Caroline says, “Quieting your inner drama queen sounds like a courageous undertaking.” I wish that everyone had a friend like Caroline. I have at least four and half friends like Caroline. And I am lucky.

For weeks, I had run out of dudes to swipe on Bumble. Swiping soothes and rots my brain so I swiped all the Montreal Bumble dudes between the ages of 33 and 47. I’m sad that your Wind-Blown, I’m About to Orgasm Sex Face never reappeared. But the good news is, a bunch of  brand new, lonely people just signed up post Valentine’s Day. I swipe one face after another, and soothe and rot my brain.

Jack the Bumble Carpenter asked me, “What is your high-grade calling? Not just your distraction.”

A low-grade calling equals swiping dudes on Bumble and rotting your brain.

It could also be cleaning other people’s refrigerators because no one will pay you to do anything else. Though sometimes cleaning refrigerators feels like a high-grade calling.

Not everyone gets to see those jars of dried up capers. Sometimes I see it as a privilege.

High-grade callings equal too much pressure. I’ve never done very well with pressure. You know that.

Dear Sorrowful Simon,

It’s okay to imagine recuperating in a tuberculosis sanatorium. You don’t need to be a certain way. Imagine yourself however you must to get through. And today’s the new moon, so you may as well make a wish.

I’ve been thinking about the tiny chambers in my heart. Hallways, or else cages.

I found the Missing Piece by Shel Siverstein in the free book box in front of the pharmacy on Beaubien street on the way to your windowless office and next to the grocery store where they sell soothing quantities of some of my favourite snacks.
Sleepy with The Missing Piece

Topics I could get my PhD in: roommates, vacuum cleaners, butt exercises, the social effect of free giveaway boxes, morning routines.

It’s important to me to point out that – I, and not Jack the Carpenter-

Invented high grade callings.

Low-grade callings,

High-grade callings, and

The Drugstore Date, which is a romantic time at the drugstore, where you can take your blood pressure and buy emery boards, or packing tape, or dish soap.
What is your high-grade calling?
For now
All the callings
Seem like Masturbation.
And the latest sleeping bag hump feels like empty calories.
Second-hand jujubes that sting and crumble your teeth
Long before you swallow.
Love, Erica.

Vincent is going on vacation, but you can still send him your imaginary emails to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Or else send them to me. Both of us would love to hear about your high and low-grade callings, killing your Inner Drama Queen, and other courageous efforts. XO.

On Valentine's Day I courageously took out the recycling.
God calls us to a humble and selfless life.


High-Grade Calling Equals, The Joys of Folding will Never Desert You
(A Folding workshop by Deep Cleans. Wednesday, February 21 at 7 PM)


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Dear Vincent, Sorrowful Simon has written you a letter.
Dear Vincent, Now you know I have that thing where you love your therapist.
Dear Vincent, Now you have three pen pals.


The Drugstore Date






Wednesday, 7 February 2018

Dear Vincent, Everyone is one with the birds except for me.

Dear Vincent,


Everyone is one with the birds except for me.
Inside
my
recycling box
remnants of coconut cream
rot along the ridges
of the can.
I have a saying that goes, “When I ask for mercy, mercy comes.”
And
if mercy isn’t here yet,
then,
you just have to keep waiting.
Mercy can be a poem,
a sandwich plus a nap,
or,
a translation contract about a sexologist
or annual furnace maintenance,
both reasonably effective at
alleviating the guilt of
not being much of a human, and
not writing something magnificent about
dying in a wishing well,
or squirrels,
or attachment trauma,
or some other redeeming topic.
Or
mercy can be a row of toddlers flailing across the sidewalk in their multi-coloured marshmallow snowsuits as they all barely grasp the same leash.
Or the flat vibrant faces of real estate agents on cardboard, their teeth impossibly long and impossibly white,
and their hair impossibly large.
Or when one of those weird blow up snowman or Santa lawn ornaments deflates and lies dead across the snow.
Or,
if mercy isn’t here yet,
then,
you just have to keep waiting.


Love, Erica.



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



What is the missing piece that stops you from real life?


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Deep Unyielding Depression, Part One
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself
Professional, Depressed

Friday, 19 January 2018

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.)


Sunday, 7 January 2018

Dear Vincent, 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,

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. Instead, I meditated while balancing Women Who Run with the Wolves on my head, worked my one and two-legged squat, and earned $60 cleaning one of my beloved attractive families' attractive home whose attractive Owl Lamp that once needed to be dusted is now nowhere to be found. Then I ate carrots and tahini butter and sugary trail mix for lunch, napped briefly and trudged to a woman’s singing circle that was supposed to help me get in touch with my inner wild woman.

The Wild Woman’s Singing Circle was at a yoga palace. The Yoga Palace had extra special extra dark mahogany floors that are likely a pain in the ass to keep clean though I could not tell because there was not enough light. Inside the Wild Woman’s Singing Circle lay a drum, a shaker, a digeridoo and a rain stick decorated with turquoise tissue paper and medium-sized heart stickers. A woman with bright and exciting tights and a young, ecstatic face welcomed me.

“Thank you for being here,” she said kindly.

She could play the drum the ukulele and had travelled extensively through South America where she felt extra close to the divine, especially when singing in Spanish, or in Portuguese.

My voice felt muted and self-conscious as we warmed up with unstructured chords and syllables.

“Just follow your intuition,” she urged the group. “Sing what sounds beautiful.”

Probably there were five women with soft open faces and spiritual pants seated on the circle’s varied and various cushions. Out of my mouth, nothing sounded beautiful. A few minutes into the spontaneous vowels and chords, three or four more people walked in. One of them was a man wearing a bright yellow t.shirt with the words LOVE written on it in big black letters.

“This is a women’s circle,” said the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukulele.

“Oh,” said the dude in the bright yellow love t. shirt. “I didn’t realize that meant just for women. But we’re all one. We’re all love. I can bring my feminine energy.” He also offered to leave, but the woman with the exciting bright tights and the ukelele said that since he was already there, he was welcome, as long as nobody objected. Obviously, none of the women objected. You don’t want to be that woman, but I was tightening and repressing what I actually thought and could sense everyone else doing the same. Almost certainly, the Bright Yellow Love T.Shirt Man qualified as a prototypical SNAG. Everyone knows this stands for Sensitive New Age Guy, and that SNAGS are not my favourite. As soon as this SNAG sat down to sing, he sighed loudly, the kind of sigh that invites everyone to look at you and witness how happy and at peace you are. Happy and at peace, and miraculous.

Probably the sigh also says, look, my cells are undulating and dissolving and this makes me extremely special. And we are all one.

Sometimes my cells feel as though they are undulating and dissolving, and this is quite a comfort though it always passes within very little time. Painfully, the group attempted a song in Portuguese. The octaves were far beyond me and I picked up the rain stick covered in tissue paper and red medium sized heart stickers to try and mask the fact that there was no way I could sing. Not next to the Bright Yellow Love T.shirt SNAG, not in Portuguese, not so high. We tried an easier song about standing on top of a mountain, and God's universal, victorious, empowering and all-redeeming love. Bright Yellow Love T. Shirt SNAG kept moaning and sighing and I kept looking outside and thinking about escaping before twilight and sneaking into Simon’s building le Tadoussac and throwing flowers off the rooftop except that the rooftop would be locked and I didn’t feel like forking over money for flowers with the $60 I’d earned that day if the flowers would only dissolve and perish by the time I got to Sherbrooke Street and Simon would most likely not give a shit, one way or another.

Write your fucking book, Simon would surely have said to me some time in the past year or so, if Simon were still alive and the two of us ended up not being estranged which is not particularly likely.

Dead, dead and more dead, I’d say back.

We started singing sounds according to the vowels of each chakra and I decided I needed to play the card, My ex-ex boyfriend jumped off a building three years ago today and I need to get the fuck out of here. Even though I was not exactly irreparably sad. Only vaguely twitchy, and vaguely teary. Vaguely twitchy and vaguely teary, I played the card, and got the fuck out of there.

On the steps of the yoga palace lay a stray and saggy, soggy glove and this made me think of when Simon used to warm his hands and mine with the forgotten gloves that people scattered all over Montreal in the dead of winter. Almost all these gloves were chic and black leather, but sometimes you were stuck wearing two right-hand gloves, or two left ones.

As it turns out, when you say no, you disappoint people, and they won’t like you as much. Still, we are all love and we are all one. It says so on so many t. shirts, bright yellow and otherwise.

It’s healthier not to give a fuck, Simon always said, and I’ve considered writing these words on my wall in smelly markers, though I fear I’d become very sick of the words very quickly.

From Apartment Number 814 of the Tadoussac where Simon lived, I walked to the dreary grey stairwell and climbed. Simon’s apartment number 814 added up to 13, and this could have been unlucky for him. Like most apartment buildings, the Tadoussac skips from the 12th to the 14th floor, and I find this sad and hilarious and strange. The sounds of my boots that tend to become damp within seven to 98 minutes of putting them on echoed and I remembered climbing these stairs with Simon in January of 2011. My knees had become sore since at the time, I’d been so obsessed with yoga that my body was far too flexible, and not exactly strong enough. Simon preferred climbing the stairs as opposed to the mountain to ensure he wouldn’t run into to very many people. At the 23rd floor, I came upon a boy, perhaps four or five years old who descended with his father. They’d just gone swimming and their hair was wet.

Est-ce qu’on devrait compter les escaliers en français et en anglais? asked the boy's father. The little boy didn’t think so and they continued to count  the stairs in French. Un deux trois, etc.  The door to the swimming pool that used to lead to the rooftop was locked.  And anyways, likely they locked the rooftop in the winter to protect the other Simons. I walked down the stairwell back to the eighth floor and took the elevator, exiting through the back of the building where Simon had fallen onto the pavement. I’m not sure exactly where.

My calves have been sore ever since, and it could be from the stairs, or from the one-legged and two-legged squats, or from cleaning and walking somewhat excessively, just about every single day. But my legs are strong and my knees don’t hurt.

Rumi says, “The Light Changes. I need more grace then I thought.”

Elizabeth Gilbert says, “Grace says nothing except that I am splendid.” She says this to Oprah on a Super Soul Sunday. I want to be one of those people with an Important Hero’s Quest. Like Oprah and Elizabeth Gilbert.

We are all love.

I’ve thought of drawing my victim wings on my wall in smelly markers. Around the border of the wings I will write, “Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”
“Grace says nothing except that you are splendid.”
Every Friday with vinegar and a magical micro fiber cloth, I clean the door of the same stainless steel fridge. On the fridge hangs a butterfly, decorated according to the kindergarten technique where you dabble a bunch of paint on one half of the picture and then fold the paper in half so that the paint spreads to other side, and you have double the colours and double the art. I remember doing the exact same painting routine in Ms. Strotman’s kindergarten class, and then the evening my parents invited Ms. Strotman for dinner I showed off and did the painting routine again. And I folded the paper like an accordion, and clipped it with a clothespin so that my butterfly was 3-dimensional and the wings were nothing but splendid.

The fridge belongs to a lovely family. Attractive, though without an Owl Lamp, they once owned a self-mutilating parrot whose angst had caused him to pluck out all the feathers around his neck. Apparently this is quite common. Now the self-mutilating parrot is flapping his wings in a bird refuge in Oka, north-east of Montreal. There he can fly freely amongst birds with feathered and un-feathered necks and wings that are nothing but splendid. After he went away to Okay, it took about six weeks before I got rid of all the self-mutilating bird shit on the walls and on the floors. The fridge stayed as shiny as ever, at least every Friday.
Selfie, with Vinegar
Outlines of victim wings also look a bit like floppy ears. Floppy ears, a bow tie, and I can’t think of anything else, except perhaps an elephant head, or the shape of certain elbows when someone places their hands squarely on their hips. Or fingerless gloves, their mouths placed side by side.

I like to imagine my victim wings, undulating and then dissolving behind my shoulder blades until they fall to the ground and perish. And I listen for Grace and she says very little, but enough.

Love you always,

Erica.
Send your letters to Vincent and/or Erica to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com. Vincent may say very little, but Erica will surely say that you are splendid.

Simon Girard 1979-2015
"It's healthier not to give a fuck."


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What a Beautiful Face
Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about Killing Yourself
Dear Vincent, I was floating on the joy of feeling seen, heard, felt and loved by you last Tuesday, November 21


Professional, Depressed




Monday, 1 January 2018

Dear Vincent, Some things we might just have to deal with for the rest of our lives.


Dear Vincent,

Some things we just might have to deal with for the rest of our lives.

It’s possible I will always be

A relatively terrible cook

Someone who struggles with lunch choices, livelihood, self-confidence,

And the phrase, “This is supposed to be fun.”

And maybe I will forever long for how safe I felt when I was with my first true love, the Boatman.

When I was four years old, I remember crying so hard that I gave myself a headache. The reason for the meltdown had something to do with tobogganing. Only one of my parents was coming and it wasn’t the one I wanted.

“Why does your head hurt?” my sister had asked that evening.

“I was screaming,” I replied, and in that statement, I had the distinct realization that such displays of emotion were not going to be permitted for my entire life. Crying until your head hurt was moderately acceptable when you were four, but eventually you had to grow out of it. And yet, despite my young wisdom, the big tears followed me to grade one, grade eight, first-year university, the first day of many jobs, walking home from therapy, and remembering the wrong memory some moment between two and four o’clock in the morning.  

Maybe you have chronic pain, maybe you struggle with depression, or disordered eating. Some of these things you may have to deal with for the rest of your life.

When I heard this, I was cleaning my friend’s shower. The speaker was Michael Stone and he is now dead. Last summer, he took fentanyl by accident. Once a week for almost six years, I listened to Michael Stone’s podcast about yoga and meditation and how to wake up to your life. All the questions were so enormous and yet the answers were so simple. Intimacy, relationship, taking care of things. Laundry, your body, the cashier at the grocery store. You could become intimate with anything. Even a terrible mood.
Michael Stone
I was in a terrible mood as I cleaned my friend’s shower and considered all the things I’d need to deal with for the rest of my life. My friend and I had met at my roommate’s party. He’d brought his girlfriend who sat on the couch across from us as I blabbered on and on about transcending the side effects of Prozac, and victoriously humping my pink and purple polka dot duvet two times a day all before 9 a.m. When it got close to my bed time, I invited my friend to join me as I flossed. As fate would have it, his relationship was sexless and open, and because I’d so elaborately described my masturbation practice, my friend thought that flossing meant precursors to humping his thigh and/or other body parts.

Months later, although we’d transcended the flossing misunderstanding, I was pissed off because I’d explicitly told my friend that I no longer cleaned with toxic products that dried out my face and inhaled poison. But instead of buying vinegar, my friend had gone to the Dollar Store and spent fifty dollars on Clorox, Vim, and similar items whose odours evoked hospitals and cancer.

One more time, Mood Sports. Some things in life, we will not and do not transcend.

And yet, knowing this is not necessarily bad news.

In fact, no more fighting could be a fucking relief.

This is just me

And I suck at lunch,

Professional boundaries,

Closing cupboard doors,

Lighting matches,

Staying up past 9:30 P.M.

And punctuating bulleted lists.

But I’m really good at

Morning Routines,

Folding laundry,

Walking obscenely long distances,

Mopping, and cleaning up other people’s messes

Taking out the recycling,

Buying toilet paper before it runs out

And

I’m the best pen pal you’ve ever had.
January 1, 2018
(written on the wall in smelly markers)
My goals in life are Creativity
Service
deep love for all of my cells
Buy a new roll of masking tape
A cleared and clear and generous heart
What is a cervical orgasm
Using Clorox only once will not give you cancer.

Some things, we might just have to deal with for the rest of our lives. On Wednesday, the temperature goes up to minus 9, and I get to see you and I can’t wait. Happy New Year, Vincent.

Love, Erica.
Send your letters to me and/or Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
Happy New Year
Love, Erica


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Dear Vincent, This letter is about saving a begonia. Love, Erica.
What does it mean to be home.
Mourning, Wailing, Yearning, Wake up




Thursday, 14 December 2017

Dear Vincent, This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself.


Dear Vincent,

This is what the Dead Inside Man says about killing yourself. Last fall, along with the Married Man, the Dead Inside Man was one of my texting boyfriends, following five to seven solid fucks and leg humps in Toronto. The Dead Inside Man has been seeing the same therapist one to two times per week for 31 and a half years. One rainy day, I sent him a blubbering text as I blubbered in my red rain coat after a session with you last October or November of 2016. It didn’t like the system I’d come up with for dealing with my organism and with me life could ever be made viable. And whatever it would take to reprogram the system, I certainly did not have. Also I’d awoken that day between three and four o’clock in the morning. For whatever reason.


This is what the Dead Inside Man texted back:

As someone who has stood on a bridge, contemplating suicide more times than I can count, I keep coming to the same conclusion: just keep going a bit longer because why not.

T’es important. Suicide n’est pas une option. That’s what it says on a poster along the hallway that leads to your windowless office. You are important. Suicide is not an option.

“I’m sorry, but it is an option.” That’s what you, Vincent, said on Thursday, January 4, 2015, two years after my ex-ex boyfriend Simon threw himself off his 23-story apartment building and died in a parking lot between Coloniale and de Buillion street, just north of Sherbrooke. “But it leaves a fucking mess for whoever gets left behind.” Blood on the pavement and an excruciating silence. Everyone always says something about this mess, but they forget that the mess is never just one person’s fault.

Dead Inside Man:

You can do whatever you want with your life.

You owe no one anything.

If you want to travel the world you can. If you want to live on the street you can.

If you want to commit suicide, you can.

But not all of it is easy.

The day that you admitted that suicide was an option, I knew that I could trust you. Last Saturday evening, I went to a meditation class and as I sat in the circle, it occurred to me that almost absolutely the teacher to my left had thought about killing themself. Who meditates without thinking about this? The only solution is to pretend that you’re too busy. Build your plastic empire, build your plastic house. Build your plastic house which soon enough will float away to the massive plastic continent somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean where maybe some business savvy rich guy will try to build a condo development.

Dead Inside Man:

Getting better is hard.

Really hard sometimes.

And if you want to give up in a year or two years or five you can.

But it's worth trying to get better. The option is always there to quit.

Life is changing because now when I weep somewhat delicately at the stand-up corner of a popular café and I see the woman behind me has a full box of Kleenex and I ask if I can have one, she says yes and she does not bat an eye. In the new world, strangers offer Kleenex for your grief and they do not bat an eye. The people who weep somewhat delicately at cafes for no apparent reason are not quite aliens. Not anymore.

Dead Inside Man: Think of it like this: you're in a crowded theatre. You start to panic that you're trapped. You look to the exit and just knowing it's there fills you with reassurance.

Doesn't mean you're going to use it. Just means you like to know there's an escape.

Don't kill yourself. But don't beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts."

For Simon just the exit sign wasn’t quite enough. We can be angry at him for leaving us with the image of him crashing down on the pavement. But the mess was not only his fault. Though he could have had one more good day, or even ten more mediocre to alright years, probably it wouldn’t have been enough. I respect his choice.

Stored on my phone, I keep screenshots of the Dead Inside Man’s texts.

Don’t kill yourself. But don’t beat yourself up for having suicidal thoughts.

In the new world, everyone knows all the options. And they bring Kleenex.

“Do you need one more before I leave?” asks the stranger as she put on her coat.

“Oh, I’m okay. Thank you,” I say. After she leaves, I weep delicately one last time, and then I trudge out. I remain in the income bracket of people who use toilet paper for Kleenex. But life is always changing. I know all my options and I love you. Outside the world looks so sunny and fresh. It is unimaginably cold, and, you’d think that the air would be so clean, but really it is not clean at all. No, in fact it is not clean at all.
I know all my options and I love you.
Erica.  

Send your letters to Vincent to ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
Happy Face with Onesie.


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Guillaume, Part Two
Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.
Professional, Depressed
The Magical Rock Vagina Cleanse