Robin Hebb.

writer, performer, cool girl.


The Boy in My Pocket.

The Boy in My Pocket.

Artwork By iejvxr



I’m alone a lot.




But if we’re being honest- and I assume that’s what we’re doing here- G is usually with me.


In my pocket when I’m walking.


On the counter when I’m cooking.


On my dresser when I’m prepping.


On my desk when I’m working.


On my bed when I’m writing.


But I didn’t even realize it until we made a movie and shot a scene where I had to be alone.


The director said


“Just do whatever it is you normally do when you’re alone.”


So I poured myself a drink, laid on the couch, fiddled with my hair and texted G.


Because I was told to do what I normally do when I’m alone.


So I texted G.


I also danced awkwardly while eating a snack.


But I kept coming back to my phone. I kept checking to see if I had a message from G.


I mean, he was standing right there in front of me recording the sound of my snack eating- but my job was to pretend it was real life.


And in real life, when I’m alone, I text G.


It’s an ongoing dialogue.


A never ending battle of wits.


A constant stream of admiration, laughing and friendly arguing.


He doesn’t like being alone but hates to go out so he spends a lot of time in my pocket. 


And I’m in no position to turn down any sort of company so it works out nicely.


I’ll catch myself staring in the mirror, over analyzing what I see.


Are my teeth getting yellow?


Has that bit of fat in my armpit crease always been there?


Fuck- another grey hair.


Then my phone will buzz.


And there is G.


Just like clockwork.


It’s usually a screenshot of some girl he matched with on Tinder who seems like somewhat of a nightmare.


Or a question like “What’s your favourite sandwich meat?”


Or just a simple “Hey Goobs, How’s your day?”


A reach out for contact.


A reminder that my loneliness is temporary.


I sleep alone every night but G makes sure to wish me a tight sleep and a good dream.


My Taylor Swift dance sessions, my writing tunnel vision, my eyebrow comparison, all my compulsive behaviour is guaranteed to be interrupted, and thank God for that.


Well.. Thank G for that, at least.

A Toast.

A Toast.

Even you.

Even you.