“Don’t you dare” by Julia on her bed


Wednesday January 30, 2013
12:26am
5 minutes
What to Wear section of Fashion Magazine
Winter 2013


If pickles in a jar could last forever there’d be no more angry pregnant ladies running around looking for pickles to put on their vanilla ice cream. There’d be other things probably but not that. I don’t know why I’m thinking of this now, I probably could afford to be “less quirky” says my doctor and especially in times of great “duress”. I just want to know that this war thing is not going to last forever. When I get nervous, and right now I’m just that, I start theorizing. It’s terribly annoying. I recognize that it is. But I can’t really help it. So. There’s that.

“could go wrong.” by Julia on her couch


Tuesday January 29, 2013
3:56pm
5 minutes
The Well in the Frog
Jana Gatien


You’re in my bed. It’s a good thing. You’ve baked me a stuffed potato or whatever and you’ve washed your feet, which is also a good thing. You’re playing some stupid game on your phone and you’re asking me stupid philosophical questions that don’t really need answers. You’re sweet. You’re very kind to your mother when she calls, even though she sometimes calls 3 or 4 times a day. I like that you have patience. I don’t, so I like that you do. You’re in my bed.
I didn’t ask you here, or force you. You just sort of knew so you came one day and you haven’t left yet. I do the groceries and I don’t make you pay me back for any of it because getting to sleep beside you every night is pay back enough. In the good sense. It’s just that I have these nightmares and when I’m alone they get real crazy. But when you’re here, when I can smell your skin, I don’t have them at all. I dream about daisies a lot which should be weird but it’s not.
You sometimes scratch the space on my neck in between the flat parts.

“could go wrong.” by Sasha on her couch


Tuesday January 29, 2013
3:10pm
5 minutes
The Well in the Frog
Jana Gatien


Bennie knows his xylophone scales like I know how to use watercolour paints with my spit. I spit into each little round pool and then mush it around with my finger. Bennie bangs on his xylophone with a little hammer and sings along. Like, The Ants Go Marching In, and stuff. I listen to his superior music skills and I’m moved by it, to, like, make these painting that have some of my own DNA in them. Sometimes, Bennie takes a break from playing and comes and watches me paint, in complete silence. That fact is dictated by me. I can’t talk and paint. I can’t watch TV and cut my toenails. I can’t have multiple browser windows open on my computer screen. I can’t brush my teeth while looking at myself in the mirror, I must turn around. I must face the tile wall. Bennie didn’t always know these things and he used to want to talk when I was painting. He’d ask me questions, like, “Why did you decide to do the sky green?” I would just look at him, like, “Stop interrupting my creative time, you big idiot!” He learned pretty quick. He learned pretty okay quick. He watches he while his hammers cool and then he goes back to his xylophone. That’s my favorite moment – when the hammer hits the little metal piece again and I can feel Bennie breathe deep.

“Nothing to do” by Sasha in her bed


Monday January 28, 2013
11:46pm
5 minutes
Free and Easy
Lama Gendun Rinpoche


There was nothing to do but watch you go. I, biting my lip and begging my tears not to fall, and you, a strong back with a blue coat and your ponytail turning grey. I hadn’t noticed. I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention. It was terrible when the door didn’t even close behind you, when it stayed ajar, questioning whether or not I might follow. I left it like that for a long time, hours and hours. Finally, I got up from my place on the floor and closed it and locked it and thought about how far you’d be. Maybe in Prince Edward County.

You’d told me that you’d never seen hands as small as mine, that they looked like they belonged to an eight-year-old boy. I took it as a compliment. I’d always wanted to be good at T-ball. You’d told me that when I was born, you thought that you saw an army of ancestors walking towards you every time you looked at the horizon. You laughed when you said it. You thought it was dumb now, but then? Then, you’d thought it was a powerful message about my green, green, branch on the family tree.

“in any other brain” by Sasha on the subway going West


Sunday, January 27, 2013
5:57pm
5 minutes
Scientific American February 2013

I couldn’t believe that I was holding your brain in my hand. I laughed. Then, I threw up. Not on the brain, on the floor, a little on my new Doc Martins. You’d asked me to take your negative thoughts that were bringing you down, down, down, into the mud of your past. It didn’t matter to you that I’d only completed two weeks of residency at Mount Sinai. I performed a lobotomy in the foyer of your condo building because neither of us wanted to clean up the mess. We’d leave it to the cleaning people who come in and do the floors every week. You died pretty quick. I mean, we didn’t have IV’s or the right instruments, or anything surgical at all. There was no nurse. At one point the concierge came over and asked if everything was okay. I paused, looked him in the eye, and said, “Yes!” perhaps a bit too confidently. Your brain was heavier than I thought it might be, a solid ten pounds, for sure. I lifted it high above my head.

“Nothing to do” by Julia at her desk


Monday January 28, 2013
12:12am
5 minutes
Free and Easy
Lama Gendun Rinpoche


Got rocks in my shoes, got nothing to do, just gonna sit here and think of you.
sounds like a good plan, you sound like a good man, your reality is better than my dreams and…
I don’t have the day by the tail like I thought I would. I play a melody of desire on the keyboard, typing Bs where the Fs should go. Can’t see the difference anyway. Typing not writing. There’s a difference there. Can’t see it. Can’t taste it. Not hungry. Just got pockets with holes in them, love notes falling out onto the floor. Finders Keepers. Keepers Keepers.
Got rocks in my shoes, got nothing good to do, just gonna sit here and wait for you.
Sounds like a good choice, yours sounds like a good voice, your heartbeat is better when it’s making more noise…
I don’t have the night by the waist like I thought I should. I play a catch phrase on the Hotel Bible and hope you catch where I’ve thrown all the answers. Can’t see the difference anyway. Loving not living. There’s a difference there.
Can’t hear it. Can’t touch it. Not sensitive. Just got pockets with broken zippers, change falling out onto the floor.
Finders Keepers. Keepers Keepers.

“in any other brain” by Julia at Starbucks


Sunday, January 27, 2013 at Starbucks
5:47pm
5 minutes
Scientific American February 2013

In any other brain, I would have thought to walk right by you. Wouldn’t have heard my favourite song when I saw your face, wouldn’t have stopped to tie my boot at the exact minute our paths crossed. I would have just gone on doing everything I would have done without being effected by your smile, and your casual scarf tossed over your shoulders, and your warmth. So I’m glad I have this head with this little brain in it, because it knew what it wanted, and knew that I would be okay with deciding what I should do.
Instead you said hello, smiled at me like you already knew what I would say back, and you stepped aside so I’d have more room to tie up my pesky laces, which came undone because I was running to catch the streetcar going west, like usual. I looked up at you, somehow guided by the brain that wanted to know you; that was willing to, and I felt something…That feeling you can’t describe with words or it just diminishes it? It’s the kind that sort of runs through your whole body and then forces your facial muscles to contort into a smirk, your belly to form a laugh, and your knees to fall weak. Never would I have thought to ask you for your name, watching you strum the guitar on the street and not feeling pressure to give you all my spare change. But instead I did. Gave you a moment that I could spare, shook your hand, and was happy.

“Richard Rooney” by Julia at Cafe Novo


Saturday, January 26, 2013 at Cafe Novo
1:38pm
5 minutes
the program for This Is War at Tarragon

God help us if he gets his license back. Sort of just hoped he’d stop driving when his eyes went. But nope! Grandpa Jerry doesn’t know how to say no to “perfectly good pudding” which is an expression he uses all the time even if food is not actually in the picture. Once he took me and Emma to go get ice cream and because he let us eat in the car, Emma was freezing for a whole 16 minutes because he swerved and she ended up with the ice cream all over her lap.
Emma wasn’t impressed.
Then another time he was driving just too slow because he couldn’t see, but auntie Ray missed her flight because he insisted he was “just fine thank you very much.”
So now he’s under strict surveillance because if he drives right now while his license is suspended he’ll never get it back. I can’t say I haven’t thought about begging him for a ride to Amber’s soccer tournament in Woodstock.

“Celebrate your inner Scot” by Julia on her couch


Friday January 25, 2013
3:32am
5 minutes
Robbie Burns Month Card

I was releasing my dog, Wendy, to go do her, you know, her daily business.
She was taking forever so I started a load of laundry. Had to wash Benjamin’s kilt, which was fine, because he wanted to wear it to Joanie and Tanya’s wedding. I think he’s a good boy, good head on his shoulders, but he’s as weird as he is good. We’re not even Scottish. Why would he want to wear a kilt, I’ll never know. But oh well at least he’s not smoking crack–which is an extreme, I know, but he’s my son, so I think I can afford to be extreme.
Anyhow, where was I? Oh right, so I let out Wendy, she’s taking forever, right. She starts barking. Screeching, actually. I could hear her from the laundry room, so I leave the load, and Kier’s little kilt. I go up and she sounds like she’s gotten into a fight with another animal. My first thought was what if it were a skunk! So I stay out just to be safe because I can always wash Wendy later. Then I wonder, no, is that a coon? Or what? Another dog, surely not.

“Richard Rooney” by Sasha at Cafe Novo


Saturday, January 26, 2013 at Cafe Novo
12:52pm
5 minutes
the program for This Is War at Tarragon

Shaking hands with him, I never would’ve guessed what he’d been through, you know. I mean, you sit beside people on the subway, or you wait behind them in line at the bank and you have no damn clue what’s happened to them. Richard had e-mailed me in January. Clearly he’d done his research. He read up on the company, he knew our mandate by heart, he got our concept… It’s… hard to talk about now, after the fact. Okay. So. Long-story-short, Rich came in and he looked really, you know, clean-cut. He had a firm handshake, a strong… energy. I’m not airy-fairy, but, he did have a… it almost felt like he’d been in the army or something. He knew how to look you in the eye. At the end of the interview I said, “So, when can you start?” He’d been with us for… under a week, I think… and he asked if I had time for a quick chat. Of course, I said “Yes”, I mean, he was one of my new guys. Sometimes people feel lost at the beginning, like, they need guidance. That was when he told me about… getting out of jail three months prior and… not being able to find a job. His girlfriend was pregnant… with twins! He was… between a rock and a hard place, you know?

“Celebrate your inner Scot” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Friday January 25, 2013
2:22am
5 minutes
Robbie Burns Month Card

Sitting at the back of the pub, his elbows on the table and a frowning face all the way to Wednesday, my husband waited. He didn’t know what for, but it was clear to everyone that he was, indeed, waiting. His booted foot tapped, lightly, and he watched the door. Edinburgh was rainy in October, and Gus never liked dampness. He’d left when he was sixteen, on a red-eye to New York, with his few things in an Army backpack and three hundred American dollars tucked into his sock. It was the first time he was back, fifty-seven, ten years from retirement from the Life Insurance firm where he works, there to grieve his mother. She’d been an alcoholic for most of his childhood, dodging abuse from her husband and bullets of attitude from her three sons. Gus hadn’t kept in touch. They hadn’t come to our wedding. In fact, Gus had insisted on a City Hall ceremony so that no one could have the chance to notice that his family wasn’t there. It was just the two of us, the Justice of the Peace and my friend Bonnie who was taking pictures. A man with a full head of thick black hair walked into the pub. Gus’s foot stopped tapping and he stood up.

“What made us drift away?” by Julia on her bed


Thursday January 24, 2013
12:46am
5 minutes
The 100-Mile Diet
Alisa Smith and J.B. MacKinnon


Was it the smell of the ocean, calling to us from across the world?
The vacation we said we’d always take and never did?
The holes in his socks that he just wouldn’t fix?
The way she cocked her head to the side when she talked about poetry?
These questions don’t need question marks. They are the reasons. They are the things we couldn’t do right.

A million times over, and the bed was still cold, the money was still tight, and the bread was still stale.
But she asks again and again. She asks herself, she asks him. She’s dying to know. She’s desperate for the answer.
“What made us drift away?”

She shuffles through the house, inspecting it the way her mother and law never bothered to. She would get up early on Sundays just to tidy it for her before brunch and that damn woman never seemed to notice, or care, or either.
She ruffles through old photo albums, trying to detect the distinct possibility that it was there all along; the proof was in the pudding; that she herself was to blame, if no one else would step up.

Was it the wretched winters that kept us from kissing when we entered the house?
The smell of garlic lingering in the air and dampening our mood after dinner?
The salt stains on his dress pants from not being too careful?
The way she never forgave him for forgetting her birthday?

“What made us drift away?” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday January 23, 2013
11:35pm
5 minutes
The 100-Mile Diet
Alisa Smith and J.B. MacKinnon


She thought that she could do it
Set sail from a port she knew by heart
Make it all the way to Thailand
She sailed alone
Starbird
Counting milky way gestures
Finding meaning in the waning moon
She ate tuna and peanut butter
When she ran out of potatoes and frozen peas
She sometimes spent days on end
Naked
That was a bonus
She docked only when she needed to see
Another human face
A high forehead to remind her of her sister
A white beard for her father
The smell of amber and rose to recollect
Her mother’s hands and voice
She’d use the calling card
Handed to her with pepper spray and a jack-knife
And call
Home
“Are you lonely?” they asked
“Yes…” she said
“No…” she said
“Is the ocean rough?” they asked
“No…” she said
“Sometimes…” she said

“I wonder if she’d mind if I’d” by Sasha at her desk


Wednesday January 23, 2013
10:42pm
5 minutes
Her…
Jordan Moore


I sit down and hear the waiter walking towards me. He’s a man in his thirties. He has a goatee, green eyes and is taller than I’d have imagined, from the sound of his steps. “Would you like something to drink while you’re waiting?” He asks. I shake my head and murmur a “Thank you.” I don’t think he hears because he looks perturbed when he returns with a glass of water. “I’m, uh, waiting for my son…” I say, in case he was wondering. “That’s nice,” Goatee says, looking over me, towards the door. Christopher had chosen this place. He’d said that they had “the best ever French Onion Soup.” I cannot stand the stuff but how was he to know. I look at my watch. Three minutes past seven. He was late. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe I’d been stood up by a twenty-two year old kid. “Walter?” I feel a hand on my shoulder. I stand and turn, at about the same time, and feel like I’m looking into my own eyes. “Christopher.” His mother had chosen his name. I’d thought it sounded a bit pretentious. “Then we’ll call him Chris for short,” she’d said. No one ever had.

“I wonder if she’d mind if I’d” by Julia on the 510 going north


Wednesday January 23, 2013
10:29pm
5 minutes
Her…
Jordan Moore


I wonder if she. I wonder if I’d..
God I’m an idiot.
I’m actually so stupid. I can’t hear my thoughts. They’re all coming out and in as just a jumble so it’s a lot. And I feel dumb. She’s. She’s everything to me. I don’t know how that is in terms of like life but right now. Right now she’s just. She’s everything.
I can’t describe it. When I smell her skin. It’s. This. It’s this thing that washes over me. Like knowing it’s almost summer or something. And I know it sounds lame. Like dumb or whatever, but she’s that to me. She has that kind of skin and those kind of eyes and that kind of laugh that just hits me hard. Like a hurricane. And I’m sort of wishing it wasn’t because now that I have it it’s bad. Like I don’t want to give it away but I also don’t want to deal with it now because it’s a lot. Too much maybe. I wonder if she. If I. I wonder if she’s sort of. I don’t know. Like I just wonder. I just keep wondering. I’m thinking about her so much that my brain is starting to see her wherever I go. It’s kind of nuts, actually.

“What do they think they’re doing” by Julia at R Squared


Tuesday, January 22, 2013 at R Squared
5:35pm
5 minutes
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
J.K. Rowling


a man comes up to you at a coffee shop and he’s like, want me to change your life? and you’re like, no, thanks, I’m good, but that’s because you’re just too scared to say YES. YES AND (it’s all the rage these days. you’d be surprised at how many movements this thing is a part of). he’s like, want me to fix your problems? and you’re like, no, thanks, I like my problems. what? you like your problems? are you nuts? do you also eat pieces of shit for breakfast and watch the home shopping network in japanese? try again. no one likes their problems. you can’t possibly. when someone tells you they will fix it, it’s like, just let them you know? no one has to be a hero. but like, that guy, the one who comes up to you in the coffee shop, he’s the hero. because he doesn’t even know you and he wants to help you. not because he’s saving your life. woah, there, he didn’t go as far to say that he would. did he? no, no, that’s too nice for a stranger. strangers don’t do that. let him fix your problems. worst case scenario is he actually can’t and then what? well then you’re just the same as you were with the problems you always had. it’s a win-win. you could buy that guy a sandwich if you felt like it. but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. he hasn’t done anything for you yet…

“What do they think they’re doing” by Sasha at R Squared


Tuesday, January 22, 2013 at R Squared
5:04pm
5 minutes
Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone
J.K. Rowling


“What do they think they’re doing down there?” My father says. He’s talking about the miners, blowing holes in the basement of the town he’s known since he was a boy. Dublin is wet this time of year. There’s nothing but grey skies. He calls me most mornings, speaking of the weather, the town news. The miners have been bothering him, he’s mentioned them every day for a week. “I just don’t understand…” He sighs. He says this a lot now that he’s allowed himself the privilege of not knowing, it comes with age, I think. “They’re probably drilling,” I say, hoping that this might soothe his worry. “For what?” I don’t know the answers. I can barely keep up with the stock market and buying bleach for the whites. “I… I’m not sure, Dad. Maybe Jack knows?” Jack is his neighbour. He’s on the town council and has a column in the weekly paper about the general happenings. Sometimes Dad mails me a clipping. “BINGO in the Church basement this Friday at 7! It’s going to be a swell night!” Does he think I might come?

“The road” by Sasha at R Squared


Monday, January 21, 2013 at R Squared
11:03am
5 minutes
The road (excerpt from a writing exercise)

You’re cold. Your arms are crossed and you’re staring. Not at me, at the picture of the lion on the wall. “Uncross your arms, for God’s sake,” I say. You don’t. I get up and turn off the music because I can’t stand that there’s a soundtrack to this quiet and that it’s Harvest Moon. “Don’t fucking ruin this record for me,” I mutter. The needle scratches. You’re still staring at the picture of the lion but your arms have slowly unfolded and your hand picks at the dry skin on your bottom lip. “I’m not sorry,” I say, punching the quiet hum of the space heater and the streetcar going by. “What’s the point of saying that?” Your eyes look away from the picture, finally, and up, to the ceiling. “I just… want you to know.” I see the vase beside me and want to break it.

“The road” by Julia at R Squared


Monday, January 21, 2013 at R Squared
11:03am
5 minutes
The road (excerpt from a writing exercise)

She was giving me dead eyes, but on purpose. I said, Sorry Lina, I didn’t mean to–I shouldn’t have said you were narrow minded. You’re not, okay, you have–you’re a lot of things other than that. Lina had turned her face to stone just by looking at me. I was worried I was next. She picked up her body, like one solid brick, and slowly walked to the bathroom. She was direct–methodical in her quest for water. Splashing the cool stream onto her face, making her cheeks glisten, making it hard for me to decipher if it was from the faucet or from her tear ducts. Lina, I called at her again, Can you just forgive me this time, please?
She’s stubborn. Hates to be nagged. Hates other people to decide how she feels. I’ve been riding her for years–trying to influence my little sister into feeling what I feel. I know that’s wrong. I know it because her face looks like it might crumble into a million tiny pebbles if I push at her too hard. She’d do that as a lesson to me. Can’t get anywhere when she’s scattered across the living room.

“become a woman of much consequence.” by Julia on the 511 going south


Sunday, January 20, 2013
2:08pm
5 minutes
Judith
Arnold Bennett


And then I said to her, “no Mom, I don’t care about pulling the sheet tight to fold it under. It’s the 21st century, nobody cares about that stuff anymore, you’re super anal and fuck you!” It was like, the ultimate moment of freedom. Okay so I didn’t say that last part, because I would have gotten the shots. Like five across the eye maybe, that’s what I think she’d give me. But I really wanted her to know that I was pissed off. First of all she made me late for board game night at Darren’s house, and second off, she totally embarrassed me in front of Marti, our neighbour, because my window was open, and Marti is always dinking around right below it as if she’s gardening or something like that. So when I looked out to see if she was there, right after my mom had yelled at me about the stupid sheets, she was looking up at me, like eavesdropping all over the place. I felt so dumb. Should have closed the window. I just don’t see why these olden day rituals need to be done in like, today’s society. Girls don’t need to learn to make beds and I’m sorry, but it doesn’t mean that we are bad, or messy, or whatever, if we don’t. We don’t have time! Oh yeah, and I also said to my Mom, right before she left, I said, “I don’t need to make the bed if I’m just going to mess it up again anyway!” Now that I really said.

“Words, I think, are oftenest weak.” by Julia on the subway going west


Saturday, January 19, 2013
6:40pm
5 minutes
the poem The Confession
Horatio Alger


There’s a chill in the air, it’s getting cold. Weather is changing. It’s getting cold.
A hundred people were standing in a line that wrapped around the street corner. They were waiting to see The Great John Abbey. Famous, perhaps, for something big. We don’t know. We just know we love him. He was visiting the local library on 5th. He was said to be coming at noon on a Tuesday. He didn’t show up, and the people, bundled in their winter bests, just waited there. I walked by a couple times, had to buy bread, and then go back out again for milk. I noticed the first time, the people were all in great spirits. On my way back home some of the children who had been standing were now being held by their parents or older siblings. The second time out some of them were huddled closer together, presumably to stay as warm as possible, and on my way back home, they were all swaying in time to a music-less song. Just swaying, back and forth. Swaying a dance that looked choreographed. They didn’t speak. They just waited there in each others’ silence. It was odd. It was calming and odd.
I was more shocked at that than I was at the fact that they were standing there long after noon with a hope so big, just to see a man who would never come.

“behind the kitchen” by Julia on her couch


Friday, January 18, 2013
12:03am
5 minutes
http://www.whiteonricecouple.com

I think you’re remembering a jump rope song that sounds kind of like this. No, I’m serious, this has never happened before. I’m telling you for the first time and there’s no way you’re able to actually recall any of the details because they’re new. They sound old but they’re new. What I’m trying to tell you, is I caught Liddy behind the kitchen doors, and she was propped up on what looked like a stool or something–but it actually wasn’t. She was levitating, Barry! Actually, I swear to almighty Christ, she was. She had her eyes closed, she was floating, and there was an evil feel in the air. Now don’t go calling any priests, Barry. She’s our grandbaby, there’s no way we’re letting anyone near her.
But I gotta tell you, it’s creepy when you hear a closed-eyed, levitating child, mumble out nursery rhymes.

“become a woman of much consequence.” by Sasha at Cafe Novo


Sunday, January 20, 2013
3:30pm
5 minutes
Judith
Arnold Bennett


“I don’t care about becoming a woman of consequence, or the stamp that I’m leaving on the world, but I do care about being the one with the best coffin!” she says and she laughs, because she can, but we don’t. My sister ran a hand over her leg and went on, “Don’t look so shocked, Soph, geeeeeze…” She closes one of the many pamphlets open on the table in front of us. She wants a Green Funeral. She doesn’t want to be embalmed. She doesn’t believe in wills because she thinks that people’s true colours come out when the people they love die and that it’s an opportunity to work together. Zaza, we call her, Zaza divorced her husband Phil last night because she refused to make him a “widower”. They’ll live together until she moves into the hospice. They haven’t stopped loving. Phil smiled as he signed the papers, or at least that’s what Zaza said. “He’s totally into it!” She’s been gorging on expensive chocolate and cases of Barolo. Since she got her appetite back she says she only wants the finest. A vegetarian since she was twelve, Zaza proclaimed at Christmas that from now on she’d be eating as much meat as she possible could to, “make up for lost time.”

“Words, I think, are oftenest weak.” by Sasha at her desk


Saturday, January 19, 2013
7:00pm
5 minutes
the poem The Confession
Horatio Alger


Taking the shortcut to Gulliver’s house, I listened to NPR and cried. I was scared that Obama wouldn’t be re-elected. I was scared that my daughter might be losing her virginity at that very moment, as I tried not to drive off the edge of the road into the swamp with the biggest toads I’d ever seen. Olivia wasn’t even precocious. She rode horses and liked reading about the EU. She’d met Gulliver at the stables, and he’d quickly seduced her. He gave me the heebie-jeebies, those light blue eyes and that long hair and those hands that seemed to wander no matter how far I stood away from him. She started telling me that she needed money for new clothes. She started plucking here eyebrows. Olivia stopped asking to be excused from the table and I know it might seem silly but it was something that Doug and I instilled in her and it just shows… disrespect. The worst is her silence. She doesn’t talk to me anymore. She barely says “Hello”, let alone, “Goodnight”.

“behind the kitchen” by Sasha at her kitchen table


Friday, January 18, 2013
6:56pm
5 minutes
http://www.whiteonricecouple.com

I never remember how you like your eggs – over easy or sunny-side up. Sometimes I guess and sometimes I ask and either way I feel bad because this is something that I should know. My mother calls this kind of thing a “mental blockade”. You sit in your Study, tucked behind the kitchen like an inappropriately placed piece of chewing gum. But, you said when you bought the house, you needed a “Study” because that would make you a real writer. It had been six years since the travel book you wrote while travelling in the Miswestern States had been published. You’d done such a good job, you really had, but travel in those parts just wasn’t very popular right now. I decide on sunny-side up. I crack the eggs into the hot pan and they sizzle, like they should. I hear you laughing to yourself and it must mean you’re being productive. I’m glad for you.

“PARK HERE” by Julia at Sambuca Grill


Thursday, January 17, 2013
5:14pm
5 minutes
The parking lot sign at College and Bathurst

Oh hi, nice to meet you, I’m at a loss for words.
Thought there would be an explanation for the greatness in friends that I have accumulated over the years.
No.
So I have no words.
Just being taken in by the silence and stillness of generosity, actually, if you must know. If you must not, then now you do and sorry I’m not sorry. A little, I am, but not for that. For that I am glad. Here you go. You should know what love feels like when it comes off the back of a selfless person.
It slides into you like lightening. Like an ice-cream cone melting in the mid-August heat. It just hits you, gets all over your clothes, your hands, your heart, what have you. It reminds you of something that squirrels probably know about but are hoarding way up in the trees so no one else can get their paws on it.
If you’re meeting me for the first time, this is what I would say to you. Not in words, remember, I’m speechless and kind of grateful for the pressure being lifted off my tongue to save lives and enter into a realm where responsibility is attached to my thoughts. I won’t say it, but I’d hold up a cue card with a picture of a girl’s face, you may know her, and underneath with one word that reads “soul-sister.” You don’t have to understand why she is, but she is, so just understand that she is in a way that makes me call her it. Who else would I call that?
Never had a sister growing up. She represents all the friends that became family. All the sisters that I have because I never was lucky enough to have them through blood.

“On those grey days” by Julia at Second City Training Centre


Wednesday, January 16, 2013 at The Second City Training Centre
5:35pm
5 minutes
Running With Scissors
Augusten Burroughs


On those grey days where you just don’t want to get out of bed, I think to myself, dark room, dark walls, and try to get myself back to sleep. I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to do anything that involves other people. I want to sleep and sleep and give back to my body. Give back to my mind and just let it dream all day. Those grey days, the ones where the sky is even lovelier than yesterday, the birds only sing in harmony, and the lawn mower is taking the day off, that’s when me and me find one another after being separated, seemingly all the way from birth, and we hold hands with the idea that We Are Enough. I am enough. To get out of bed to even prepare a cup of soup would be a tragedy. To lean over the edge of the warmth and safety and potential imminent back ache to pick up the tissue that had been left there over night would be a disservice. For those grey days are not grey in colour, but in feel. In texture. In one world where ideas and solutions can’t multiply fast enough. It’s the in between, the place where my mind and body go to have a lie down; a rest. It’s the place where no other colour is invited because it would just ruin everything. It’s that.
So on those grey days, I sleep.

“PARK HERE” by Sasha in her bed


Thursday, January 17, 2013
4:12pm
5 minutes
The parking lot sign at College and Bathurst

I make empanada to bring Hutchington family house. David (Hutchington father) give me old Corolla grey car when he get fancy BMW black. I say so many times “Graciasgraciasgracias THANK YOU!” and even cry some tear. I make empanada every day for Hutchington family. Kyle, baby boy Kyle, only want Maria empanada. Not Mama’s “mac n’ cheeze”. Only two park spots in Hutchington garage. Park my Corolla in lot seven blocks away. PARK HERE sign glow bright red when I go to home. “Bye bye Maria!” say Lola, Brad and Kyle. I say, “Goodnight babies! See you mañana!” Sometime Kyle cry. Then Brad cry. Then even big sister Lola cry. They don’t want Mama. They want Maria.

“On those grey days” by Sasha in her bed


Wednesday, January 16, 2013
7:01pm
5 minutes
Running With Scissors
Augusten Burroughs


On those grey days, on those sad, lonely, sniffle-sniffle days, on those days when you don’t care if it’s oatmeal or granola as they’re both made of oats; on those long days, on those drab days, on those puddle-puddle sore days, I think about the time I almost got a surprise party.

I’d been engaged to Hugh for seven months. I was turning twenty-nine. My birthday is in February… He was still living with his father up in Collingwood, helping him with the cabinet-making. I was working overtime as a Law Clerk. It was a job that I loathed more than anything, more than the smell of bleach, more than cauliflower, more than hangnails. I’d tried to get the day off but, alas, my Grade-A-Asshole boss had said, “Nope!” As I watched the clock go from five fifty-nine to six, Hugh walked into the office. I hated it when he did this but I tried to excuse it, given the circumstance.

“Become a doctor.” by Sasha on her couch


Tuesday, January 15, 2013
11:49pm
5 minutes
http://www.stumbleupon.com

It’s “funny” to see me? Really? How so… I… I remember the last time we bumped into one another, I was still working the cash at Wendy’s and you laughed, you actually laughed so hard I thought you might spit Sprite out of your nose, when I told you I was thinking about going to Med School. If I’m not mistaken, and trust me, I’m not, you said, once you’d regained some composure: “Kim, people from Brestonville don’t go to Med School. Heck! They don’t even go to college!” And then you laughed a bit more before collecting your Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger and baked potato. You said all that loud enough so that everyone in line behind you could hear and then each and every person that followed had some comment or another on my imminent future. I don’t think any of that is “funny”. And seeing you now? Looking all long-haired and baggy with what I can only imagine is your ugly baby hanging off your hip? Well, there’s nothing “funny” about that either. It’s sad. You’re sad. This is sad. You never left, Polly, you never left Brestonville. I did! Guess where I live now? Vancouver. With a beach and mountains. I work at a really fancy hospital and I get to hang out with people so much cooler than you every single day. It doesn’t matter that some of them are dying.

“Become a doctor.” by Julia on her couch


Tuesday, January 15, 2013
12:41am
5 minutes
http://www.stumbleupon.com

Knew this guy from high school. He said he always wanted to become a doctor, or a medic, or something like that. I never saw the use in science classes or math. I assumed I would never be anything close to smart since I didn’t care about anything that proved one was. This guy I’m talking about, we used to have these debates. Mostly about God, and philosophy, funnily enough. We competed for grades but we were in completely separate systems. How could calculus ever be a thing to compete with Lit? It couldn’t. And yet, somehow, he was convinced that I was going to be a problem for him. Like I said, I never expected to become someone you’d associate with smart. I should mention now, I guess, that I am in fact a doctor. The guy from high school? He’s the manager of a Danier Leather and he hates his life. I hated math and science, and then one day, I just decided I didn’t want to hate them anymore. It sounds over simplified, but if you knew me you’d understand. I just get it. I get a lot of stuff so it just depends on what I want to get. Then it’ll be good. I love my practice, truly. I can’t picture myself doing anything else now. Back then the only thing I thought I was going to be was a bright pregnant teenager who taught her future children about bad choices.

“arrest and the boycott,” by Julia at R Squared


Monday, January 14, 2013 at R Squared
11:16am
5 minutes
The Power of Habit
Charles Duhigg


Erica shows me her sweater that she shoplifted from Dufferin Mall. I say, Erica, you have the money, it’s not like you couldn’t have paid like any decent human being.
Decency? Is it decent to charge 36 canadian dollars for a sweater with deliberate rips in it? Please. She says, as she models it in front of the mirror.
You obviously liked it enough to swipe it, you klepto, I say, trying not to like the way her collar bone looks in the sweater that she stole.
It’s the thrill, she says, You should know!
I used to thieve back in the day. I guess she was right, it was thrilling. But it wasn’t solely about that for me.
I wanted to get caught. I didn’t have anything else.
Erica twirls around taking off the ripped sweater to reveal a gold bikini top, one size too big for her.
You’re sneaky, I tell her. That doesn’t even fit you.
She laughs. I didn’t get it for me–this one’s for you…
I try not to smile. It’s my style and everything.
Where’s your real bra? I ask her, hiding my enthusiasm for something I gave up a long time ago.
I left it hanging there, she says, right in the change room like a prize.

“criminal record” by Julia on the 511 going north


Sunday, January 13, 2013
12:24am
5 minutes
TTC poster on the streetcar

You lost me the day you chose your life over mine. Put yourself in danger, fine, but me and our boy? Never ever again. I hope you rot in jail and lose your ability to chew. I don’t know what will happen to you there, but I hope it’s bad. You’re just lucky that Sylas won’t remember his daddy pulling a gun on another human because he was too young to understand. But I will always remember. This crazy life you lead. I should have known better on our first date when I jokingly asked you if you had a criminal record and you just stared at me with this threaded apology in your eyes. I should have known. But it was too late. I already loved you. I want to say I could have gotten out but that would be a lie. You were the version of me in male form that I could stand to be around. You led a double life. You led a triple life for all I know. So bravo. You did a good job convincing me that I had nothing to worry about. I know you got angry but I believed it was only for good reason. You had your paranoia but I thought that was just your shoulder medication. And now I have a baby boy to raise all on my own–and I’m thankful for that. You won’t come anywhere near him.

“Los Angeles CA 90064” by Julia on her couch


Saturday, January 12, 2013
2:32am
5 minutes
the bag of pistachios

Funny isn’t it? This snow business? I’m just happy it’s going away, I’ll tell you a story!
When I was 3 I got buried alive in the snow when I was making a snow angel. Isn’t that cute? My neighbour’s dog kicked up snow on me and then I died! But just for a second because my older brother, Jeremy, was right there and he just uncovered me. You’d think I’d be scared of the snow after that, but nope! Not me! I’m not afraid of it, I’d just rather not be anywhere near it. Because I also have poor circulation in my feet. That’s just because it’s genetic, you understand. I haven’t thought about moving away to a warmer climate either. Ha! That was a joke. Everyday I dream about going to Los Angeles and never coming back. I want to buy a one way ticket, you know what I’m saying? I’m not trying to gain your sympathy about the snow angel story either. I mean, I exaggerated a bit here. I didn’t actually die! It’s called “dramatic story telling.” The circulation thing is true, though, boy is it ever. One man once told me to wear slippers with spikes in them to prick my feet and get the blood flowing. Spikes! Can you imagine?

“arrest and the boycott,” by Sasha at R Squared


Monday, January 14, 2013 at R Squared
11:16am
5 minutes
The Power of Habit
Charles Duhigg


I climbed a California redwood and I stayed there for six months of summer and fall because my Dad told me he’d bought some land to build his newest WalMart. “There’ll be an Organics aisle!” He’d said, trying to get me on board. I hadn’t planned on staying up in her branches, in her arms, for so long but I kept seeing bulldozers and hearing chainsaws. Barbara Walters came to visit in September. She climbed up a big ladder in green New Balance sneakers to “chat”. “We’ll chat!” She said. I said, “I wasn’t expecting company. Sorry I didn’t shower.” She laughed a bit. “How do you feel about your father saying that he’s not going to let you stop him?” She asked, picking a leaf out of her hair. “I feel… unsurprised.” She waited, as if I was going to elaborate. I didn’t. Barbara left before sunset. I ate one of the granola bars that she’d brought.

“criminal record” by Sasha at her desk


Sunday, January 13, 2013
1:02am
5 minutes
TTC poster on the streetcar

He had a criminal record (multiple DUI’s and one “possession with the intent to sell”), a ponytail (black and coming midway down his back), a three-year-old daughter (Maddie), and three hundred and seventy two dollars in his bank account ($372.11, to be exact). He wrote songs on a ukelele and sang them in Spanish. He bit his nails down really low. When we met, he’d just lost custody of Maddie and the lawyer bills had put him thousands of dollars in debt. He was looking for a job. He came into the diner and handed me his resume. It was terrible, every line in different fonts, different sizes, no references to speak of… He asked for a glass of water “without ice”. Normally people looking for jobs, people like him, annoy the hell out of me. I don’t know. Something grabbed inside me, he grabbed something inside me. I told him to sit down, I gave him his glass of water and I told Don to make him a cheeseburger and fries.

“Los Angeles CA 90064” by Sasha on her couch


Saturday, January 12, 2013
12:25am
5 minutes
the bag of pistachios

Every time I write my address I have to pinch myself, you know. It’s a figure of speech but for me it’s real. I pinch the same place, on my forearm, to remind myself that this is real and I made this happen and as a bit of an “in your face” to all the people that said I couldn’t and it wouldn’t. There’s no “How To” book. I mean, I put myself on tape and got a few amateur videos on-line. I got the hits up by live chatting with my followers, by doing the things that they wanted to do on webcam, by allowing them to buy me gifts and stuff. Then, I sent in the links (I have over six thousand views, okay,) and they, the Producers, they got really excited because… there aren’t a lot of girls like me.

“You just banged my head on the floor!” by Sasha at The Common


Friday, January 11, 2013 at The Common
2:36pm
5 minutes
The Pillowman
Martin McDonagh


It wasn’t a mistake that Gertrude ended up at the drop-in centre and that I was on that night, working the desk. Every person that came in had to sign in and out and it was my job to make sure that they did that. I also cleaned the reception area and sometimes made tea or coffee. Monika, the social worker, asked me if I’d like the job once I was clean and found a place in the subsidized housing complex nearby. We’d all seen Gertrude before. She looked over a hundred but claimed to be “seventy three and a half!” She was about the size of one of my legs and she pushed a baby carriage with a small dog in it. Apparently he was injured. Gertrude came in completely irrational and freaking out. “You just banged my head on the floor!” she kept shouting. Veins were popping out and she was wringing her hands a bunch. The little dog was barking and everyone was getting agitated at the centre, wondering what was going on. Monika looked tired. She took Gertrude into her office and we all got quiet to hear what was going on in there.

“You just banged my head on the floor!” by Julia at The Common


Friday, January 11, 2013 at The Common
2:27pm
5 minutes
The Pillowman
Martin McDonagh


Mommy I’m telling Daddy on you! You hurted my head!!
Didi, please, you’re fine. I just hit it lightly. Watch Mommy do it. See, it doesn’t hurt that much.
Mommy is a bad bad Mommy!
Didi, It was an accident. You’re still alive!
I’m alive?
Yes, alive. You can speak, you can cry, your eyes are open. That means you’re alive, and OKAY.
Oh. I’m ALIVE, MOMMY!
Yes. You are.
Are you alive?
Are my eyes open, am I talking?
Yes!
Good.
Is Daddy alive?
I sure hope so.
Why?
I was just kidding, sweetie. He’s alive, yes.
But you don’t know?
He’s just not home, so I can’t do the checks, but I have a good feeling he is. We haven’t gotten a phone call yet.
Why?
Because when you get phone calls about someone, like Daddy, but not from Daddy himself, it makes you start to worry a little bit.
But if Daddy calls, he’s okay then?
Yes. Well, mostly. If he says he’s fine, he’s fine. If he calls and says he’s not fine, then that’s when we know he’s not fine.
So we don’t want Daddy to call?
No. I mean, we do, but only to say, Hi baby, I love you, I’m coming home.
Not to say I’M NOT ALIVE!
No. Not that. But for the record, if he did say that, it would be good, because it would be a joke, and he would have to be alive to make a joke.

“Paying too much” by Julia at Sambuca Grill

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Thursday, January 10, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
4:44pm
5 minutes
Acanac-Inc. ad

But Sherry was a mess, so she couldn’t have seen into herself long enough to notice that she was wearing two mismatched shoes and had left the entire contents of her wallet on the fireplace mantle. Not the wallet, that she brought. But why she emptied it, please don’t ask. It was a big kerfuffle and Sherry wasn’t used to being this big of a mess. Her fireplace mantle has a lot of weird things on it, but we won’t get into that here.
She noticed first that she had absolutely zero money or plastic when she was simply trying to buy a taco cupcake. You don’t need to know what that is to know that you would want one. Sherry wanted one, and was half way consuming the beautiful mouth-treat (because she couldn’t wait), when she figured it out. She thought about her options: either a quick dine and dash, feign starting her period and promise to come back right away after she plugged up the hole, or let the waterworks begin. She (stupidly) ended up doing all three, in no particular order, and because, like I mentioned, she was a mess, and just opened her mouth and tear ducts and things started rolling around in the air. The man behind the counter was legitimately afraid for his life.

“ho-hum classic.” by Julia on the 510 going north


Wednesday, January 9, 2013
11:40pm
5 minutes
Wellman’s Chrestomathy of 22 Answers

In a series of letters my father wrote my mother (in German) before I even existed, I have seen the beauty of the world the way it was meant to be viewed. My father, utterly and almost desperately in love with my mother, was the one who began their romantic correspondence. He sent the first letter and pressed a daisy into the pages for her. It was incredible. Not that it would be so out of the ordinary for a man to write to a woman, but my father, a man of seemingly few words, even at the best of times, was so eloquent and impassioned in these letters. So poignant, so brave.
Each one made me cry and that’s saying something. Perhaps I wasn’t seeing the world and all its beauty, but the way the inner workings of a man’s heart are so intricate and inspiring and through that, the world is seen in a different light. He was never a poet in the life time in which I knew him. But these letters would shock anyone literate into clutching their heart out of the sheer emotion and catharsis that he achieved through his muse: my mother. Her letters never seemed to intrigue me in the same way as his; her penmanship almost too perfect to be considered poetry..

“Paying too much” by Sasha at her desk


Thursday, January 10, 2013
10:23pm
5 minutes
Acanac-Inc. ad

Florence is tired of paying too much for good cheese. She thinks this might be solved by moving to Italy, somewhere in the South, where it doesn’t get too cold. Wouldn’t hurt if she met a nice man, salt-and-pepper, with an accent and a killer smile. Florence forgets it might be funny for her to visit her namesake city, where she was conceived. She doesn’t see the charm that her parents did, in naming each of their seven children after the city where they first came to be. She feels worst for her eldest brother Copenhagen, and second worst for her youngest sister Washington. Florence’s father worked for the US army so they travelled all over. He was never deported, like some of her friends fathers were. He was, unfortunately, home every night in time for dinner, home every night in time to terrorize the cockerspaniel Freddie and each of them, his very own “city children”, at various points in time.

“ho-hum classic.” by Sasha at Cafe Pamenar


Wednesday, January 9, 2013 at Pamenar
6:14pm
5 minutes
Wellman’s Chrestomathy of 22 Answers

ho hum doldrum she likes to make the rhymes
she does it all the thymes
(ohhhh, wordplay!)
When she writes in public she feels much more legitimate. Writing at ones’ own desk is just plain old sad. Write at overpriced coffee shops, goddamnit! Take yourself seriously, for goodness sake! Spend $43 on a poopspresso! Look cute in a striped shirt and black rimmed glasses! And, for the sake of the people, have a Mac! Instagram yourself writing, for legitimacy. Or, at least, your inspirational “spread”, including but not limited to – a book of Plath’s early work; said poopspresso latte art; your painted nails; a stubby HB pencil with assorted nibble marks…
ho hom bo bum she likes rhythm in her words
like her music
like her footsteps
ho hum bo bum do dum
doesn’t matter if it makes sense
better if it doesn’t
no one needs to
LIKE
it
(Get it? See what I just did there?)

“makes a splash” by Julia on her couch


Tuesday, January 8, 2013
11:17pm
5 minutes
The back of the Next Stage Festival program

Oh! And he has ambition too! Did I mention he smells like the sweet afternoon at a tropical resort?
I’ve never been in love before but I’ll tell you right now if this is it, then it’s very much worth waiting for! It’s like, how can one guy have all the qualities that I want in a partner, and THEN SOME, when some people are lucky enough if they have 2/10 attributes on my list. I mean, I want to ask him, “Are you even real?” Like, for example, when he dives into a pool (did I mention? He’s a professional diver!) he doesn’t even make a splash! How nuts is that. He has more poise in his pinky finger than Gandhi has in his whole body! Is that too far? Should I have left Gandhi out of it? I don’t care! I DON’T CARE! I’m truly happy for the first time in my adult life, I didn’t meet him online, AND, I didn’t make him up. What am I supposed to do? Hide behind my happiness and pretend my life, for once, isn’t perfect? I don’t think so. I’ve got big plans for us. We’re going to rent an apartment together before we own, and my biggest goal for us is to have an actual garden!

“makes a splash” by Sasha on the subway going West


Tuesday, January 8, 2013
11:14pm
5 minutes
The back of the Next Stage Festival program

So, you want to hear about Zoe? There was nothing romantic about our meeting. We were roommates. I found her on Craigslist. She was the only woman that responded and I finally took my mother’s advice and thought that it might be a good idea to live with a… female. When she came over for the first time she’d just picked her cat, Barry, up from the vet after a near-drowning. She was all shaken up. This cat, Barry, was the closest thing to her. She’d had him since she was a kid. So, Barry was in his cat-carrier and Zoe was all tear-stained and emotional, not to mention she’d just spent hundreds of dollars that she didn’t have… None of us do, right? Especially at this age. She was so… fragile… I made her a cup of coffee and told it was a fine for her to let Barry out. He sniffed around a little but mostly just stayed curled up on her lap.

Sensory dip: Little red potato by Sasha at R Squared


Monday, January 7, 2013 at R Squared
10:05am
5 minutes
a little red potato (sensory dip)

My pockets are full of small red potatoes. I’ve been trying to forget my name. The shoes I was wearing yesterday and the day before are gone now. Now, I’m wearing an old man’s type of shoe, a loafer, with small pink ribbons as laces. They’re too big or, maybe, I’m too small. I’ve been trying to remember what Nigel looks like – the small freckle on the right side of his nose, the way one eye is a bit bigger than the other, how he needed a haircut, badly, when I left, his dark hair betraying his age and our secret and my tick tocks. I’ve got my hands in my potato pockets and I wonder if the hotel will have a pot I can use to boil them.

“black and white” by Sasha on her couch


Sunday, January 6, 2013
10:49pm
5 minutes
The Art of Dramatic Writing
Lajos Egri


When we talked about going down to the ocean and sleeping by the sand, we weren’t thinking about the tide. You brought blankets that had been in your grandfathers attic and I brought sleeping bags that I used to take camping as a kid. You told me about the time you bit off more than you could chew and how you really wanted to surf in Bali. I said that I was homesick and wanted nothing more than a fresh head of lettuce. You fell asleep before me and I listened to your breath, with the ocean, and felt the dampness of the sand coming through the blankets we’d laid beneath us. I couldn’t believe how dark it was. There wasn’t a moon. I thought about swimming that day, and seeing how far out we could get without being freaked. You made “glugging” noises to scare me.

Sensory dip: Little red potato by Julia at R Squared


Monday, January 7, 2013 at R Squared
10:05am
5 minutes
a little red potato (sensory dip)

What a truth, that I’m holding the world in my hands.
Capability and hilarity.
What other tools do I need?
Patience?
I’ll just borrow that from my best friends. They have a lot of it.
Maybe grace?
I’ll get that from my mother. She has so much I bet she grows it on to her rosemary bush and cooks with it sometimes.
Do I need anything else?
Honesty.
Yes.
From the girl who lives down the street from me. She recognizes how crazy she is, but in a good way. She wouldn’t mind showing me how to carry it with me. I asked her once…she thinks I already have it.
The world, my world that I’m holding, feels like I could squish it.
I could puncture it but I would not be using my tools. I’d be using my emotions.
The ones involving fear.
I don’t remember from whom I received it.
Who gave me that?
Surely not my father.
Surely not my teachers.
I can’t remember if I saw it in a store window once, tried it on, and thought it looked good on me so I took it home? Or….?

“black and white” by Julia at her desk


Sunday, January 6, 2013
10:43pm
5 minutes
The Art of Dramatic Writing
Lajos Egri


Patti Oliver’s face is half black and half white. She wears face paint every day and she looks like a giant ying yang with her nose as the little squiggly line. It works perfectly because her nose is a bit squiggly looking to begin with.
My mother said she was hit in the face with a baseball but I think it’s because she’s just supposed to look like a ying yang.
She doesn’t speak much. She lets her face be the centre piece and the conversation starter. My father calls her a hippy and says she’s too into “movements”. My mother says she’s brave for being so bold.
I hate to admit but I’ve never actually spoken to her. I don’t want her face to scrunch up and ruin the pretty design. The pretty sign of peace and I’m sure for her initially, equality. Her parents aren’t even interracial so she’s really just doing it on her own. I think I respect her. People don’t know what colour she even is anymore because somehow her hands are always covered.
I think it’s deliberate. My father thinks it’s lazy. He actually thinks she just doesn’t wash her body ever but obviously she does. She kind of has to. All the paint smudging on your pillow case would really be annoying to have to clean all the time. My mother says to my father, “Rich, it’s a statement, so shut up about it.”

“Health and Fitness” by Sasha on the subway going East


Friday, January 4, 2013
4:31pm
5 minutes
the YMCA winter Schedule

“Health and Fitness”. He’d listed it as an Interest, you know, like, in the Interest section? That’s what Brittany said, anyway. She set up the account, you know? I was like, “I don’t need a fucking website to get me laid! Sheesh! Shouldn’t those things be for people that are like, shut-ins or whatever?! When you’re twenty-two the whole world is a dating site!” But Britt says that, you know, to, like, fully get over Vincent I should date a whole bunch… or, at least, like, hook up a whole bunch? You know? So… he’d, James, that guy you saw, he’d listed “Health and Fitness” as his number one interest. So, I thought that he’d be… sporty? Right? And, like, as a result, he’d be pretty buff or at least, like, toned. We met at Second Cup and I didn’t think that the guy in the hoodie, that really really really tall guy, could possibly be James. He never mentioned he was, like, seven feet tall, right? But it was! And, like, I’m not even five two, right? So… It was awkward as shit for the first ten minutes. And he’s shy, so… that’s always awkward.