“Let me get what I want this time” by Julia at Propeller


Monday, August 17, 2015 at Propeller
4:13pm
5 minutes
Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want
The Smiths


I’ve been on my knees
begging someone please
take me from this tease
give this half life ease

I am not a victim but I have gone a long time without getting what I want and I think it’s fair to share that. I am not a victim but I don’t get things given to me for free or by accident or without me giving something first. I am not a victim but I watch other people win while I wait. I am not a victim but I don’t have any socks that match. I am not a victim but I do all the calling out and reaching out and loving out. I am not a victim but nothing ever works out for me. I am not a victim but I can’t lose weight. I am not a victim but I wasn’t put in piano lessons as a kid. I am not a victim but I’m always the last to know. I am not a victim but I play the part because it was designed for me.

“legs crossed and notebooks open.” by Sasha on her yoga mat


Friday May 29, 2015
10:43pm
5 minutes
Intro to Happiness
J. Allyn Rosser


Cecilia scratched a deerfly bite and called to Ron, “Can you bring me a beer?” She was so perfectly comfortable, on the screened-in porch, reading a Bon Appetite from 1995, in an old Speedo one-piece that most likely was threadbare but neither she nor Ron cared so… Ron brought a beer and she closed her eyes and pursed her lips, a kiss call. Ron kissed her. Without words, he went back into the house, letting the screen door swing closed. She dog-ears a Rhubarb Crisp and read about arugula. Ron came out again, this time shirtless and in running shorts. “What are you doing?” Cecelia asked. “Running,” said Ron, sprinting off, before she could object.

“and back to discipline” by Julia on the couch at the Coren’s country house


Friday December 26, 2014
1:43pm
5 minutes
Uncle Fred in the Springtime
P.G. Wodenhouse


Wake up. 6am. Decide. Wake up? 6am? Sleep longer. One hour? One half hour. Wake. Wake up. Wake up and start. Day needs. Lists. Wake up. 6:16am. Decide. Move. Go. Start. Coffee. Skip it. Banana. Second banana. Leftover popcorn. Start. Go. Teeth brushed. Floss? Not today. Not tomorrow either. Fuck. Buy toothpaste. Buy deodorant. Troll living. Stop troll living. Out the door. Go. Get moving. Groceries. Find recipe for butter tarts. Try to look everywhere. Go to store. Back. Back to store. Buy butter. Buy butter tarts. Fuck it. Fuck. Check list. Clams. Clams? Oh, clams. For the sauce. Build the sauce. 4pm start. Ready for 6pm. 6pm. Decide. Decide to wash. Tomorrow maybe. Maybe tomorrow. Change sweatshirt. Tomorrow buy new sweatshirt.

“Axe throwing league” by Sasha at her desk


Sunday March 9, 2014
9:43pm
5 minutes
overheard on the 72 pape bus

Those dark corners of our relationships where we’d rather not look? Where we’re happy to let dust settle and rarely vacuum? I learned that that’s not such a good idea in the long run. Sam is surfing Buzzfeed like a real animal these days. Right now. He’s on it. I know it’s bad that I look in the window reflection to see what’s on his screen. He doesn’t need to know the “10 Best Study Snacks”! He’s not studying for anything! “Read a book!” I shout. He laughs. So. Here’s the latest. I think Sam’s addicted to the Internet. Not in a funny/cute way, in a ‘Are you okay?” way. The other day, I get home from work, arms full of groceries and library books. He’s on the floor, sitting with his back against the couch and he’s reading a blog about an Axe throwing league. “Whatchu doin’?” I ask. Nonchalant. Totally cool girlfriend. “Looking into an exercise program so I can lose my gut,” he says, eyes glued to the screen.

“safety matter to us” by Sasha on the Bathurst bus


Tuesday, February 11, 2014
1:07pm
5 minutes
TTC subway poster

Sometimes she becomes a sloth
She sits
Warm computer on her thighs
Cup of lukewarm tea on the windowsill behind her
And she travels
Via screen
To places she might not get to before she wins the lottery
Mostly other women’s kitchens
Mostly women with children and nice cameras and gardens with fresh herbs
She’s embracing her sloth-dom
She used to fight it
With the “rush” epidemic
With the “yes” curse
She used to fight it
With coffee
And chocolate
And bagels
Not today
Today she rubs her sloth-body
She slow roasts tomatoes with garlic and rosemary
She let’s the darkness of the setting sun
Pull the brightness from the room where she sits
Where she’s sat
And she let’s the couch hold her
Like a friend
She let’s the screen take her
to islands and mountains and risotto and dragonfruit

“The moon is my sister” by Julia on her bed


Thursday, June 20, 2013
1:15am
5 minutes
The Early Morning
Hilarie Belloc


The moon is my sister, did I mention that? Yeah. She is. She’s pretty incredible, I guess. She’s always there when you need her, and she knows how to divide her time properly so even if she can’t fully be there, she still gives you a decent chunk of her. And she’s beautiful. She really glows, I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever been lit by her on your way home at night, or saw someone else in the gentle light she casts, but, she’s something special. She’s humble, too. I don’t think she ever asks for anything or tries to get you on her side. I mean, I guess she doesn’t have to since people tend to gravitate towards her anyway without her having to try. I mean, it must be nice. To be her. The oldest sibling with such a cult following, especially if you’re a vampire or someone who likes vampires. And to know she doesn’t have to feel bad for being lazy because she is always doing just so much. Lazy people get strained necks because they don’t like to sit up all the way when drinking a glass of water from their nightstand, and have too much clutter because they don’t throw out empty boxes marked ‘Files’.

“they descended on him,” by Sasha at R Squared


Monday, November 12, 2012 at R Squared
11:15pm
5 minutes
Pest Control
Bill Fitzhugh


She wishes she were sick. She wishes laziness were excusable and that people would coo sympathy and love and bring her sweet potato soup and apple crisp. She wishes she remembered the prayer her grandmother would say before bed because she really needs the comfort of God and romanticized lacy nightgown memory. She wishes that tomorrow she might wake up to summertime and orange juice in the fridge and Jon snoring softly beside her. She makes a mistake by calling his brother and asking for Jon’s journal, the one how wrote in every day during his fifty minute lunch break. Why couldn’t they just give him a full hour? She reads it and re-reads it and learns his words by heart. “I like Angela,” he wrote. “But I could never love her.” She sings this line, her only line in his special book, over and over, trying to take a shower but failing.