Saturday, January 23, 2016
A Facebook Post
You can’t help yourself. I get it. What with the swiping and the scrolling and whatnot? You’ve never met her in real life. (“It’s the way we’re going… Technology is more “real” than real, quite often…”) You follow her and she’s the first place you go when you get up, even before you’ve peed, even before you’ve put clothes on. She posts most frequently on Twitter. You’re disappointed when she gets that app that streamlines all the social media together. You learn to appreciate the repetition. She’s getting more risky in her posts – more swears, more cleavage, more opinions – and you like this.
Friday, June 25, 2015 outside of Banyan Books
NETI: Healing Secrets of Yoga and Ayurveda
You’re ready. You’ve got a bottle of Grapefruit Perrier and a small bag of peanut M & M’s, poured into a pink teacup because you’re classy like that. You even blew your nose so that all your senses could be in their most tip top shape. You turn up your screen brightness and adjust the volume just in case there’s any video content. You know your route, your map, your lily pad path on which you’ll jump. You’ll hit up exactly two ex-boyfriends, but that’s just the warm-up, like a quad stretch or a neck roll. Then, you’re ready for the big leagues. The Ladies. First, the ex-girlfriend of an ex-fuck buddy. She’s so political. She’s so colourful and always has impeccable, stylish but not too stylish haircuts. She’s vegan. You eat exactly twelve M & M’s on her pages (Facebook settings are private, so quick! On to Twitter and Tumblr!), and then feel guilty and dump the rest in the compost. Next, the sister of your best friend from grade three. She’s a violinist. She’s in a band. She blogs while they’re on tour and one time you definitely had sex with the drummer so it’s a nice way to keep tabs! No! Big! Deal! You feel shitty about the fact that you called him drunk two years after sleeping with him ONCE and try to fish the M & M’s out of the compost. #FAIL
Saturday August 16, 2014
a poem by Mary Oliver
When the song ends, she smiles. She brushes hair from her face. She shrugs when asked is she wants another drink. She takes out her phone and she looks at it. She turns it off and on. She thinks about that song from Ally McBeal Ooga chaka ooga chaka and she furrows her brow, wondering where that might’ve come from. She checks twitter. She thinks about what to say. She thinks about whether of not she should write something about that song. She decides against it.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014 at Fresh on Bloor
The Dentyne Ice Subway Poster
She annoys herself with her recycled thoughts. She’s had them since the time before hashtags, since the time before a thumbs up meant a thumbs up and not a “like”. She goes to the mirror and tries to get out the blackhead that’s been annoying her since last night, when she spent approximately thirty seven minutes picking at herself. Poor face. She hears her mother’s voice, “use a q-tip or you’ll scar!” She doesn’t care so much about the scars you can see, more about the scars you can’t. “Practice love,” she hears the voice in her ear-buds. “Practice healing.” She’s annoyed at this voice, this coo-ing, goo-ing voice. She’s unsure of gender or time of day, she’s unsure of origin. She hates this voice. She throws her iPod onto the floor. “Practice patience,” she hears, tinny, trying to reach her, trying to grab her, trying to pull her back.