edith zimmerman

Neat, at around 4 pm I discovered my pants, arms, and butt have jelly all over them. Hey, whoever put jelly on me, I’m mad at you!

That’s me, cleaning my own leg.

You guys, my boyfriend and I did a pre-Halloween photo session to get the jitters out! :P What do you think?

I used to enjoy a nice piece of fruit with my lunch, and every day I would buy one from the market near my work. But I have stopped doing this because every time I would bring, say, a peach up to the register, the man who was always there would say, “Miss, make sure to wash this. You must make sure to wash this.” I would thank him, and at first I appreciated his advice, because it was thoughtful, and I probably wouldn’t have washed it because I don’t care. But he kept saying it every day, and after a while he added on, “You have to wash it, Miss, make sure to wash it. Because we handle them.” And when he said “handle” he made this fondling gesture really gently and slowly with one hand. It was disgusting and I no longer eat fruit from that store. He is my boyfriend now, though.

My friend Thyra recently reminded me of a funny story that happened four years ago when Johnny Damon was still on the Red Sox.

Three of us went to a club in Boston because our friend was DJing there. None of us had ever been to a club before, so we just stood in one area, drank slowly, and watched the other people. It was pretty awful—very dark, everyone was wearing shiny clothes, drinks were really expensive, the music sucked, and no one was paying attention to us. And then Carrie noticed that the man standing nearby in the shiny black shirt with a large pointy collar was Johnny Damon. We got really excited but tried to act normal. We started dancing, and we tried to dance especially cool so Johnny would notice. He was standing with another dude and a girl with blasted blonde hair. He didn’t notice us. So when the blonde girl walked away, I went over to him and said “Hi Johnny Damon.” I smiled. It was really dark, but I could tell he wasn’t smiling back. “Do you want to dance with me?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Okay,” I said.

Then I walked back to my friends and told them what happened. I was wearing a white blazer over a black tank top, so I decided that if I walked away and took off my white blazer and balled it up in my hand I would look like a different person because instead of a white top I’d have a black top. And then I could go back and ask Johnny Damon to dance again. My friends were like, Yeah, good idea. So I went into a corner (so Johnny Damon wouldn’t see me do it) and took off my blazer. But then the blonde girl came back and we decided that maybe I still looked like the same person, even though it was pretty dark. Then we decided to leave.

It was an underground club so to leave you had to go up a bunch of red-velvet-covered stairs. On the way up, my friend Thyra tripped and fell forward. When she hit the stairs, she let out a little scream of surprise and pain, and a bunch of people sitting near the foot of the stairs started to laugh. One person mimicked her cry in an extra girly way, and we looked back to see who had done it, and it was Mark Wahlberg.

The end.

Cool highlights, Johnny.

So I think the world is trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite, yet, figure out what it is.

My popularity among children increases. Today, while I was walking home from work, an 8-year-old boy broke away from his friends and ran at me. I figured he was just energetic and would pass me by, but he didn’t and then he was hugging me, and then, staring into my eyes with manic glee, he began to slowly and meaningfully hump my leg (because he was short because he was a child and that’s where he lined up). I grabbed his shoulders and said, “Whoa, WHOA,” and tried to pry him off, but he clung. “You CANNOT do that,” I said, and I pushed him off. As I passed his friends I gave them a complicated look that said, “What the fuck/you all are crazy/haha that was awful,” but it may have been lost on them. The oldest kids were like 12 or 13 and they all leaned on their bikes and smiled like douchebags.

I didn’t actually say anything to them, however, because I remember how when I was a child I always grabbed women on the sidewalk and rubbed myself on them as hard as I could while groaning, it was just what we did. It was mostly a rite of passage. Maybe I’ll do it again tomorrow, just for old times’ sake.

Do you guys get it? Why I used that picture?

It’s because the child was singing ‘50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.’

I’ll be honest—at first, no, I didn’t remember him. He was standing outside a sports bar with an empty beer in his hand when he pinched my arm and asked me if, girl, I remembered him and “[his] nuts,” aka his testicles. I was hesitant, wanting to confirm but not wanting to misrepresent myself. Before I had time to answer, however, he followed with—as an addendum to the first question—“We smoked weed that day?”

At this point it felt like someone punched me in the stomach because clearly he had mistaken me for someone else. “Would that it were me you are remembering,” I wanted to tell him, as it was clear that whoever had smoked weed with him that day was a lucky lady indeed. Instead I continued on wordlessly, not trusting my ability to adhere to the truth. I was afraid I’d be compelled to lie and say it WAS me who smoked weed with him that day, thereby denying whoever it was who actually did smoke weed with him on that day the sweet, sweet pleasure of standing near this rough gem of a man whose tender pinch was matched only by the mature sincerity with which he informed me as I walked away that I had “no ass.”

On the way to the subway, I passed two boys about eight years old. They were alternately leaning against a mailbox and hitting each other. Both wore giant baseball caps that came way down over their foreheads. As I walked by, one kid squealed, “YO MAMI MAMI MAMI, kai getcho NUMBA!!??” with some panic. I turned around. They were both looking at me and rocking in place, but one of them was clearly more strung out and excited/terrified.

“Yes! Definitely!” I said to him, and I rummaged in my purse for my wallet. “OK, here’s my business card, but I’m going to write my cell on the back, is that cool?”

The boys kept looking at each other and then at me and then at each other. “YEAH, YEAH, WHATEVER!” one of them screamed.

So I wrote my number on the card and then passed it to him. “Give me a call, maybe we can go out for a drink,” I said.

The boy took the card, and then the other boy punched him in the stomach.