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. Now I am waiting for the flowing brilliance to rush out of my zucchini fucked vagina and reveal my soul’s deepest truth, and it’s possible I am not waiting long enough, and am lazily opting to cop out by revealing vague and unnecessary truths about my ZFV, for you and for the Internet.
The idea for fucking a medium-sized yellow zucchini came from my friend Sexy Motorcycle George who passed through town on Friday, June 29, 2018, Day 1 of a 7-day heat wave, and before we cuddled all night and did not have sex, SMG did his laundry and for some reason the washing machine did not drain and on Monday, July 2, 2018, I waited seven hours for the Elvis Appliance People to come and they did not come, unless they stopped by without calling while I was around the block buying strawberries. The washing machine filled with mildewed SMG rinse water is not my greatest hardship although sometimes I fear that a broken washing machine is the first step to an unforgiving and unrelenting spiral down into dire poverty.
And yet, whatever happens to your hair, in my dreams or otherwise, my undying love for you does not seem to be living a short life.
Before the century long afternoon waiting for the Elvis friends, I cleaned an Acupuncturist’s condo at the ends of the earth, and in fact it was a lovely and chatty time and I got a latte and $100 and three needles and a lift home, and all seemed reasonable except that as I was getting ready to head out the Acupuncturist said, you look great, you have really big legs, and then the Acupuncturist went on to say something about how deranged everyone who wants anorexic legs is, and instead of my agreeing about how deranged everyone is, a Solid Fat Day ensued and I wondered and still wonder if I am eating too much nut butter and ice cream, though in fact it seems I am not eating quite enough since I periodically wake up at midnight or two a.m. unable to sleep and in need of more cottage cheese and or nut butter and or crackers.
The morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018 was again somewhat of a Severe Fat Day (in fact, the whole week was a Severe Fat Week), and I felt and feel so heartbroken that after all these years, I can still barely love my thighs and the rest of my cells for two to seven and a half hours per week. If I were a therapist, I would specialize in people who cannot love their thighs and the rest of their cells for much more than two to seven and a half hours per week. It is as guaranteed a business model as wiping the pubes off busy or lazy people's toilets, and far more lucrative. And anyways, the morning of Tuesday, July 3, 2018, I only did a reasonable amount of exercise given I would be cleaning for six to seven hours, and I sobbed profoundly, however the noise and the duration were both moderate, and I arranged for a reasonably responsible breakfast and lunch. The truth is my thighs are the best I can do.
Deep love to your thighs and to everyone else's,
Erica and Imaginary Vincent welcome your emails at the secret email address ericaschmidt85(at)gmail(dot)com.
|My thighs are the best I can do|
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Dear Vincent, Elizabeth Gilbert says that, every time you have sex with someone, some small part of you dies.
Dear Vincent, It seems no matter who I'm having sex with, I ugly cry every other time.