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, 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 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.

Five yellow biodegradable and compostable dildos for one dollar is truly an excellent deal. Larger and more solid than a cucumber. Not much happens in my dreams about you except that you are riding your bike without a helmet, and in one dream you’d shaved your head which is not a look I’d recommend for you, if you have any choice in the matter, that is to say, if you somehow escape cancer treatment that causes you to lose your hair, slash, if you somehow escape the ordinary and generic balding process.

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. 

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.

Dear Vincent, How is your headstand going?