Monologue for Young Adults 5: Eustace (17/31)

 

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb -- 

Monologue 3: Secession -- Monologue 4: Thirty More

Listen, I don't mean to be unoriginal, but literally the flames... burning... on the sides, sides of my face... I could dunk my head in a bucket of antidepressants and I wouldn't cool down. It's just a constant pressure -- a vice grip. Yeah, that bitch Eustace - you remember my imaginary bully Eustace - that cunt, just taking my head and slamming it on his work bench and strapping me down and twisting the little spinny thing on the side that tightens the vice grip? Yeah, he's just spinning that bitch hoping my brain just bursts. But it never does. It's resilient, my brain; props to her, I don't know how she does it. Yet she doesn't know how to convey to me... how to help me out of it, how to give Eustace the Jazzy Jeff sendoff after we've left the door unlocked for him to creep in.

I deal with this pressure, though, this burning on a daily basis. And you know, it's not always so bad. Usually I can ignore it until I have to think critically or someone says something that wakes Eustace up. Like, "Your hair looks great today, man." What does it normally look shitty, cause I didn't do anything out of the usual; maybe I actually woke up in time to take a shower that morning? Like, the fuck? Without fail, that mothafucka gets back to stomping on my brain like he's tryna make whine.

[his friend tries to acknowledge the pun, but Thomas pushes on] 

So when you say to me, "Thomas, just write the damn novel already?" my mental response to you almost everytime is, "Bitch, how?!" Like, I don't want to be tragic. I don't want to have to get drunk everytime I want to write, high everytime I have to edit myself, but you know what? Sometimes I'm just funnier that way. Sometimes it's easier to drown my oppressor than confront him. If there's money in the budget to find a therapist I can actually relate to instead of some boring old white man, great. Fantastic. I welcome it. Otherwise, you'll get the book when I can find the mental capacity to finish it. OR you can set me free. ...actually, don't do that, I need money. I don't need Eustace calling me a broke bitch, too.

Word

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Monologue for Young Adults 4: Thirty More (10/31)

 

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb -- Monologue 3: Secession

30 years? Damn. No, like... okay, yeah, we know I'm bleak. But making it to 60? I can't imagine it. No honestly, I can't! Like, making it to 30 last year was a gift in itself. And you're talking about retiring at 60. Whew, those benefits must be amazing! I mean, yeah, they better be if you're putting your life on the li-- I just didn't know we could do that. Not the at 60 party, retiring in general. I thought it'd be all dried up by the time whomever among us survived that long. Or we'd be 74. Yikes, nah definitely don't want that. Listen, my knees are already locking up. I can't drop it low like a bitch used to. I can't club at 74. And make no mistake, knowing millennials and our liberal aversion to children, there will definitely be clubs for the elderly. And I have... mature friends, so don't call me ageist. I love them, respect them, honor and cherish them. If anything they've showed me that making it past 40 doesn't have to be boring, it can be fulfilling. But that's a strength I have not yet acquired, and I'm more than happy to bitch out.

[laughs] Me. Elderly. [laughs again] Bitch, I'm tired now! I can't do another 30 years of this. Like, the first time around, easy. Barely noticed. Wasn't truly conscious until I was four. Didn't get a job til I was eighteen cause I never left the house before then. Didn't really start paying bills til I was 21, 22. And yeah, I've realized this before, but you want me to survive 30 years paying bills!? Mmm, I'll give you 20 and then drop. Listen, get your time in with me now. I'm not taking care of this already defective body any longer than I have to. They start making cyborgs, then we can talk. But til then, I'mma keep drinking this drink and just see how long I make it before I crash and total this thing. 

Mm, so let's make a toast and a pact! Cause I see all your faces souring. We're friends; we're tight; we love each other more than we love our families. We keep each other alive, but as soon as one of slips and we're all gathered around your hole in the ground or your urn, we just let it go. Fuck it. Party til our worlds end. Last one left throws themselves in the grave or crematory too. You in?

Word

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Monologue For Young Adults 3: Secession (4/31)

[This is an installation in a series I began in 2017. Each stands alone as its own piece.]

Monologue 1: Housing --  Monologue 2: Green Thumb

So like… how married are we to this whole “United” thing? Cause in theory it’s cute, but in practice… I just don’t see it, just like how I’ll never see every state cause I value my life. In my mind, the divide is already there. Three nations: The west coast and those four corner states, that big ol dusty midwest and the filthy south, and finally us up here - the OG 13 states, minus and adding a couple states. Shut up, I know my constitution or whateva.

 I’m just saying, I’ve noticed the trend. The people of the coasts and the people of the swamps and dustbowls are built different. Hell, each state’s basically already doing what it wants to anyway. At least my idea of keeping them all together in three pieces is better than the chaos of fifty tiny nations making treaties amongst each other like Europe.  People already ran away from that system once.  

What’s keepin us together? Honestly? Resources? Oil? Ugh fuckin oil; I’m tired of dinosaur juice. Let’s go back to buying fuel for horses. Which would probably come from farmers in the Midwest. But if they hold food hostage, they’re just as fucked up as we thought. Honestly, I’ll miss Chicago, Atlanta, and Houston the most. Oooo, and New Orleans. Shit, ok. Definitely gotta establish some sort of embassy system for the decent metropolitan areas trapped in Reagania.  

What? Oh, now, I would never name them - I don’t wanna take away their agency or nothin’ -  but obviously the middle would name themselves after Reagan. They don’t like being too current and love to cherry pick history, so it just makes sense. The west could be cool and go with Portlandia or like Big Reno, but they’d be surprisingly boring and go with Western United. That’s why it’s up to us in the east to be original and go with Freedia. Listen, if we can convince the queen of bounce music herself to move up here, that’s just a plus.

Word

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Monologue for Young Adults 2

I’ve always thought plants were just trying to reclaim the Earth from settlers. You know, they say we evolved from apes, but what if we’re actually aliens that got strained here years ago and have been making the best of a shitty situation ever since. I mean, it would make sense why so many people don’t care about recycling or destroying the ozone just so they can keep making a profit. It’s weird. And allergies! Like, think about it. People are allergic to things that grow out of the ground. That doesn’t seem like intelligent design to me.

But no, really, I think Mother Nature is at war with us. Back to the allergies, trees and plants release pollen just to fuck with our sinuses. I’m out here choking to death every May and July because I don’t want big medicine fucking with my body chemistry, hoping by body will evolve. Some cool nostril flaps would be nice. ...ok, fine, they’re trying to pollinate and reproduce. But consider this: more than one thing can be true. Huh, yeah, how ‘bout that?

Like, these plants are out to get us. The other day, I was doing some landscaping when I saw it. I bent down to pull off a thin vine from my chain link fence, and I saw the little fucker actually creep and crawl and wrap itself around the metal. It was the most surreal thing I’ve ever seen. Like, plants are really alive. So of course I killed that motherfucker before it could claim anymore of my land. Like that abandon mansion a mile south of the arts museum. You’ve seen it: completely covered in vines and moss. That shit isn’t natural art; that’s conquest. And yeah, all this green shit supplies us with air and food and atmosphere and whatever, but I, for one, refuse to coexist with simple organisms trying to take my land away.

And that’s why I don’t want your stinking rose, April. Attracting me with its cuteness just so it can stab me with its thorn. Fuck outta here! Can’t fool me.

Monologue for Young Adults

Yeah but she’s 25. Twenty-fucking-five. Do you realize the embarrassment I had to hide when she told me she was closing on buying a house? Not selling a house but buying one. A house to make a home. By herself. And yeah, she’s looking for a roommate so she won’t be lonely, but that roommate will be paying their rent to her! And she’s 25. What am I doing wrong with my life? How is this person that entered high school when I started college doing better than me? You see, this is why I have to stop dating younger. Older. The sugar mamas, that’s what I need. Someone to take care of my broke, paycheck-to-paycheck ass. A nice, tender old thing to finance my hopes and dreams, just let me lay around the house in nothing but silk underwear after I come home from the gym so I can look sexy on their arm when they want to flaunt me. Because let’s face it, Jonas, buying a house was never part of the plan unless I struck it big. Or someone I dated liked me enough to start a family and then we’d figure out a way to pay for a place in the suburbs, probably owing our lives to some bank until our grandkids are old enough to get drafted. I think that’s the other thing that’s blowing my mind: I didn’t even know single people our age were buying houses, let alone could afford them. Engaged and married couples, sure, but what single person knows that they want to stay in one place for at least ten years? Sure you can sell and I suppose owning is better than renting, but the sheer responsibility of having that much money saved up or having credit that decent - nay- good… Is it too late for me? Will I always be this artist working in the service industry hoping to be discovered for the rest of my life? And don’t even mention grad school to me, because I don’t have the money nor the patience for a place like that. So yeah, I guess this is it. I’ll lower my standards. From now on, if a person on a date mentions some big purchase, I’m just gonna ask for the check, shake  their hand, and leave the restuarant. They can afford a sailboat, they can afford my half of the meal. I’ll put that money into a savings account and pretend like I’ll have enough for a mobile home someday until I break down and buy the next Nintendo to distract me from my woes. Because Mario may get new powers, but he’ll never earn enough on that plumber’s salary if he keeps chasing that girl. At least that’s relatable.

And the President of 2020 is...

And now, another actual monologue from my upcoming show You're Not My Step-Mother and You Never Will Be! coming to a stage near you this Neveruary.

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Listen, I love Kanye, adore him. He's a mastermind. Music as we know it wouldn't be what it is without him. So imagine what the States will be like if he actually runs for president in 2020. The entire world would never be the same!

Now, I hear you. Why would we want Kim Kardashian-West as our First Lady? Well, I'm personally hoping he divorces her, but don't allow her to dissuade you the same way Sarah Palin did. We can work around that package deal. I mean, wouldn't it be everything to have North and Saint West as the First Children. [gasp] Jay-Z could remix My President is Black again!

Stop giving me those crazy eyes! Yes, future President West is nuts. Bonkers. He's come after people when they weren't talking about him or his family. He's messed around with supporting Cosby. But look what he's been through. Such humble beginnings as an aspiring producer and rapper from the south side of Chicago. He made his way unto the Roc-A-Fella team. He survived a car crash that could have taken his life away. He survived the emotional trauma of his mother passing. He's almost done surviving his breakup with Amber Rose. No matter how big he gets, he's still an underdog. You want him to stay in his lane; the fashion industry wants him to stay in his lane. And granted, his latest collection seems like a ripoff, but that's the true sign of a businessman and mogul. He's literally doing better than selling water to a whale*.

All I'm saying is, I want Kanye to win more. He inspired me in high school. I wanted to be Kanye. In some ways I still do; I aspire to his levels of confidence and success. I want to see him go as far as possible. Because the farther he goes, the farther I can go. He's paving the way, and I shall follow him until I can make a path of my own!

That's how you sound when you talk about Trump, Trisha. Don't lie, you love his "humble" beginnings, too. You think if Trump can be as irreverent as he's been, as racist and unapologetic as he's been and succeed to the highest office in the land, so can you. You're pushing a man you know would be terrible for this country because you believe things will start going your way. He's convinced you to buy into his brand. He's spent close to two decades brainwashing you between all his scandals and time on television. And yes, he's entertaining. Damn, is he entertaining, but in the same way Jafar is entertaining, Trisha. In the same way that got Dubba Bush re-elected, Trisha. I'm sorry, but I just can't support that. Separate the character from the gotdamn person!

And if all you took away from this conversation is that I would actually want Kanye West to be my president, then you're denser than I thought.


~~~
Previews start in my living room next month.


Word


*Jay-Z lyric from U Don't Know, Blueprint 1 era

Couch Surfin

And now, an actual monologue of the Wacko variety. Feel free to use it as your next audition piece.

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This post comes to you live from a friend's couch, transmitted from a mobile device. Got a long history of sleeping on couches that dates back to my first sleepovers. Then, it wasn't even a recliner I slept on; Twas the floor. See, my best friend had a large family in a small home so technically he didn't have a bed but a fine claim to the couch. And I would gladly accept the cushion he offered me as I dreamt on the imaginary bottom bunk next to him. I did this any time I would visit my father, not because I hated him, but because I felt a closeness to my friend I didn't see often enough. I even fought off roaches for this luxury. 

This standard of not sleeping in my own bed manifested itself in my college years, when by senior year I felt at home enough with my friends that instead of walking the mile back to my own dorm I'd simply crash on their uncomfortable blue sofa, occasionally forgoing a blanket. Years of stiff floorboard conditioning had done me well. Even once one of my friends graduated a semester early and his bed was free to claim, I refused to move in - not because I didn't want to, but because I enjoyed having two options to sleep and actively choosing the crappier option, unconsciously deciding to show my dedication to them. 

Then I graduated and found my own place. And I was working minimum wage. And I slept on the pillow pad of my roommate's lawn sofa in my own room. And this bothered me not, because I had trained for this and the cheap mattress I ordered was on its way. Except one month passed. Then another. And another. And another. Until it was the Super Bowl and I had my first post-college hookup and I didn't have a bed to fool around on and I never heard from him again. That's when I mustered up enough funds to buy another mattress. And this one arrived in a week, I was so overjoyed. It had a pillow top and everything. But then, two days later, the unimaginable happened. UPS must have finally figured out where I lived, because when I returned from work that night there was a box marked "From Walmart" and I immediately recognized it as the first mattress I was too much of a punk to trace or call about. 

It was then that I knew my days of couch surfing were over. You learn to appreciate your own bed when you buy two of them in less than a year. Not to say I won't still sleep over a friend's place. Obviously, I'm on one right now. Shit, I won't even bother to pull it out if it's one of those fancy 2-in-1 types. But never again will I purposely sleep for weeks on end on anyone else's sofa, loveseat, recliner, or carpeted floor when I have a fine ass Queen mattress in a big ass room in a big ass house to call my own.

Word.