“people will say stupid shit at my funeral.” by Sasha at Lit on College


Tuesday, september 4, 2012 at Lit
2:53pm
5 minutes
Sunday Secrets
postsecret.com


what you should say is
she wished
every night
that she could open her bedroom window all the way
that the glass had somewhere better to go than up
that she could stand in the window frame
hands pressed hard into the old white wood
and look out
and then
when she was ready
she could crawl back into bed
and dream good dreams
what you should say is
she hated every time anyone was late
because she knew that time was precious like a cactus
to her cacti were the most precious
because you couldn’t grip them
like you could an african violet
or a spider plant
or even a ginger cat
what you should say is
she may have worn a lot of oversized shirts
but her waist was actually surprisingly small
she was just saving it’s reveal
for a very special occasion

“Approved–Thank You” by Sasha at her desk


Monday September 3, 2012
6:57pm
5 minutes
from a Shoppers Drug Mart receipt

He left and I burnt the evidence. I almost set the whole bed on fire but realized that wasn’t very cost effective. The sheets were old anyway. It’s a shame I don’t have a fireplace because I had to go down to the park and do it in one of those old trash cans like a hobo. August rain coming down and everything. And the druggie kids took it as a call to arms or something because before I knew it I was surrounded by kids with names like “Raven” and “Ursula” offering me tablets of things that would make me forget him altogether. I was tempted, I have to say… I really was. But I settled on a swig of something strong and sour from a flask with “Bad Girl” written in pink jewels on both sides. I didn’t need a lot of lighter fluid or anything, just a bit, a sprinkle, a dash. Boy, do sheets burn. It was almost beautiful, you know… And then, when I got home I realized the only other sheets I have are flannel. And it was thirty frikken degrees out tonight, I mean I had no choice but to abandon that plan and sleep in the bathtub like a real degenerate.

“true believer” by Sasha outside of Jimmy’s Coffee


Sunday September 2, 2012
4:42pm
5 minutes
Insight and Books section of the Toronto Star, Sunday Sept 2, 2012

Annie believed in a white and lavender wedding with candle chandeliers and teeny tiny asparagus quiches on round silver platters carried by semi-attractive waitstaff in charcoal vests. Annie believed in “something old” and “something new”. She would “borrow” from her Aunt Katherine, who had exceptional and expensive taste. Her “blue” would be something subtle and sweet, perhaps lapis studs. Annie believed in writing her own vows but keeping certain elements of the more traditional wedding. Traditions existed for a reason, she thought. There would be a band, not a disc jockey. There would be pearls, not sequins. There would be an open bar, not cash. There would be twinkle lights and taffeta, and there would be a cellist playing something festive and thoughtful when she walked down the aisle.

It is a shame that Annie’s father is in jail and therefore can’t walk her down the aisle.

No one points out that Annie might need a boyfriend, then a fiancee and then she can have her much desired “husband”. People don’t whisper and giggle under their breaths, they now look at Annie with furrowed brows and slightly pouted lips. “Poor thing,” they say.

“people will say stupid shit at my funeral.” by Julia at Starbucks


Tuesday, september 4, 2012 at Starbucks
12:31pm
5 minutes
Sunday Secrets
postsecret.com


If I die before I wake…
If I don’t get to heaven…
If “God” has a bigger plan for me…

What if you don’t come. What if you think you don’t owe me anything anymore because we haven’t talked in three years and we haven’t sent each other a birthday card?
What if you think it will not be your place? What if you think it will be too hard to see my family?
Please reconsider.
I would go to yours.
I would make sure no one said anything stupid at your funeral because if they really knew you they’d know those things would make you unhappy. No Jesus talk.
I remember this from lying on the floor of your parents’ cottage, staring up at those tacky glow in the dark constellations above our heads.
You said it then and it’s ingrained in me now. “If there’s something bigger, its name is definitely not God.”
Maybe a joke or two but truly, I know you’d want tears. Tears about you and your greatness. That’s why I would go; to give you that; to remember you even if it’s too hard, or too difficult around your family, or too uncomfortable around your new man. If he says anything about Jesus I will cut his throat right then and there. You’d probably really like it if the two of us fought, wouldn’t you?