“Wild Birds Unlimited” by Sasha on the plane

Tuesday April 3, 2018
5 minutes
From a storefront on West Broadway

When Kimbra takes the podium, we listen. We stop chewing bubblegum, and picking knee scabs, and looking at cutie-pie Hammy MacDonald with the freckles and the swimmer’s shoulders. Today’s debate is about Saddam Hussein and I don’t even know which side Kimbra’s on but she’s winning, she’s always winning.

“Look at her eyebrows,” Jimmy says and I am, and I do again, fresh slate, eyes blink, there they are the most perfect caterpillars.

“Do you think she waxes or plucks?” I say, not looking away.

“Neither,” whispers Jimmy, and goshdarnit, I think he’s right.

“finding my people in unexpected places” by Sasha on her couch

Monday August 28, 2017
5 minutes
Bad Feminist
Roxane Gay

I’m watching the fiftieth video of the day. I can’t stop. I can’t stop this insane addiction, I’m not judging myself but it’s just the truth. I am obsessed with the purple paste that these Queens use to cover their real eyebrows. And then the whole new set that they draw on way up on their foreheads. OBSESSED. If I could just just watch the eyebrow stuff I might, I really might. Who knew that these would be my people?

“I can’t wait to meet you” by Sasha at R Squared

Tuesday June 4, 2013 at R Squared
5 minutes
From a Target billboard on College

I can’t wait to meet you, on Mars, with a good watch on my wrist and a tummy full of honey roasted cashews.
I can’t wait to meet you, at the dock, by the pier where we jumped, with a heart full of Dolly Parton and my veins pulsing youth.
I can’t wait to meet you, with a picnic, with a basket, and a bottle of red wine, with a wedge of brie and a jar of lactose pills.
I can’t wait to meet you, to trace your eyebrows, to kiss your eyelids, to stand on my tip-toes, and press my tongue to your third-eye, like you enjoyed once, like I’ve wanted to do ever since.
I can’t wait to meet you, the photo that I know so well, you won’t be wearing track pants, you won’t smell of cigarettes, you will have well-kept fingernails.
I can’t wait to meet you, at the busstop, turning down my iPod so that I can listen to you talking on your phone – “I’m running late,” you say, “I’m sorry,” you say, “I’ll be there by ten to eleven.”
I can’t wait to meet you because I’ve been waiting for this moment since I doodled the name I thought you might have on the leg of my jeans, since I a picture of what I thought you might look like in a Rolling Stone Magazine at the lake.

“Never say never, Moby!” by Sasha at her desk

Monday, April 1, 2013
5 minutes
Overheard on the subway going west

Moby has started pulling out his eyelashes. He isn’t exactly conscious of it, he mostly does it when he’s tired, or stressed. Olympia notices when they are almost completely gone. “Moby! What in heaven’s name has happened to your eyelashes?!” She says, grabbing his chin and tilting it up towards her. “I don’t know…” He responds, wrestling his face away from her. “Eyelashes don’t just… disappear!” She’s yelling now, even though the parenting book on her bedside table says never to do so, especially about appearances, or lunch. “I don’t know, Mom…” Moby slunk to his room. The next day, after a particularly abominable spelling test, Moby went to pull out the last of the small, corse, hairs. They were all gone. He moved to his eyebrows. The next morning, at breakfast, Olympia screamed. “MOBY! What the fuck has happened to your eyebrows!!!!” He’d only heard his mother swear once, at his father, when his father had forgotten to send Moby a birthday card. He started to cry. “I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, Mom… I don’t know what’s going on!” She felt instantly bad about swearing, and yelling, she saw the face of the parenting specialist on the cover of the book, his eyes glowing. She knelt down and pulled Moby towards her. “I’m sorry for yelling, Sweetie,” she said, stroking his head, quiet, soft. “Don’t worry, Mom…” He says. “The hairs are just… falling out. I think it’s a disease. I think I should go to the doctor immediately.” She nods, quickly.