“like food processors” by Julia on her couch

Wednesday January 16, 2019
8:21pm
5 minutes
On Becoming A Cat
Emily Mitchell

In the middle of the night I hear you whispering sweet words into the pillow
They’re for me
I kiss you back to sleep
I stay awake wondering about the light dancing across the ceiling
I was tired before this and
now maybe it’s denial
The past few days have felt impossible
Each of our hollow seems to be bouncing off every surface in sight and you might not be rubber but I’m definitely glue
I wonder at the dancing light, the collective sadness seaping into my skin, the way waking up never arrives without a headache anymore

“Modern medicine clashes” by Julia at her desk

Thursday May 17, 2018
10:16pm
5 minutes
from The Observer (UK)

The lady with the floppy hat tells me that I should not let the doctors give me anything.
Don’t let them try to make you take more than your body needs.
Rely on homeopathic remedies.
I tell her my mother will flip her shit when she hears this.
The lady is concerned about my mother flipping and I have to tell her, out of joy.
My mother has been researching pills.
I think she thinks she has to prove to my sister that she knows what she’s talking about.
My sister will not take one wikepedia page as Gospel.
She used to take gospel as Gospel and would tell you that she is not that person anymore.
I didn’t want to take pills for my headache because the lady with the floppy hat
tells me that my body is too sensitive.
She tells me no alcohol either if I can avoid it.
I am about to tell her my mother will flip her shit again and then I stop.
I didn’t want to mess anything up but my head was already so messed up.
I took one of the white pills and swallowed the water.
I wasn’t going to take the second one because she said always take less than I need.
And then I took the second one.
Because I really didn’t want this headache.
I don’t know who to believe.
A faint throb quickens.

“weather permitting” by Julia on her couch


Friday January 31, 2014
1:18am
5 minutes
The Actor’s Survival Guide
Jon S. Robbins


i guess my whole life has been ‘weather permitting’. like will i read a book today? yeah, maybe, ‘weather permitting.’ or, another example would be, will i get out of bed before noon today? yeah, maybe, ‘wether permitting.’ it makes sense because i’m a very sensitive person. i’m activated and deactivated by the temperature, by the sun, or the lack there of, by the rain, by the copious and dreadful amount of rain, by the mud, by the slush, by the snow, by the hail. like i’m not saying i’m the only one who is, cause, i know i’m not. i know i’m so not the only one. i don’t even have one of those lamps, like, to ease you into the day, to wake you up naturally like the sun does when it gets super depressing. like i don’t have one of those so i know i can’t be that bad, but the productivity that i base my success and failures on, well. yeah. that’s when i’d say it really effects me. almost so much so that i can’t even string more than three thoughts together to form a complete sentence or like, do the load of laundry that separates me from being a dirty hobo and a decent looking human being. you know when you just have one of those loads that has all your decent items in it cause you wore it all one week cause it was probably nicer out during that period? like all the coloured things or the shimmery stuff that you don’t feel like just busting out when you don’t get out of bed cause there’s like seriously no need, right?