Monologue (work in progress): You wake. You breathe. You sit. It's Saturday. It's Friday. It's Wednesday. It's one pm. It's two am. It's cold. It's hot. You're bored. You're in love. Your back aches. You feel like shit. You want a vacation. You want to take a nap. You can't sleep. You're hungry. You don't like this. You don't like that. It's September. It's March. You forgot your mother's birthday. It's raining outside. The baby needs changing. You prefer to walk. You prefer the red. It was an awful movie. You don't know. You'd rather not know. You don't want to talk about it. You hate your job. You wish you would have done something else with your life.
You wanted to be a botanist. You favored the company of funny women. At one time you parted your hair to the right. You wore tight jeans and brown leather boots. You flossed your teeth while talking to others. You painted pictures of scantly clad women. You washed your hands seven times a day. You ironed your khakis on a portable ironing board. You carried around a noisy German typewriter. Your sandals reeked of cheese. You shaved your head with hopes that you'd find a new simplicity. You carved pumpkins on the basement floor and left the seeds to dry. You never cleaned up after your sick cat. You stole from your roommates. You planted a rare watermelon species in the back yard. You allowed a blind Indian man to shave you with a straight edge razor. You passed out cold on the subway and someone picked your pocket. You wore clothes too big for you. You mocked the cats. You listened to rare arias. You chewed your nails and spit them on the floor. You often dreamt about swimming. You once parked your car and soon after forgot where you parked it. You broke your rib in a mosh pit. You sung in the shower to avoid looking down at your growing belly. You stuck your tongue out while stirring cake batter. You sucked your thumb until you were twelve. You had two children. You were ashamed of the hair on your chest. You played abandoned pianos. You often slept on your left side. You massacred slugs with your fingers. You rubbed aloe vera in your eyes. You found a trio of baby possums under your porch. You picked avocados in Punjab. You weren't afraid of flying. You watched swifts fly into a chimney. You bought fifty balloons from a street vender and handed them out to strangers. You fed a mythical turtle. You only ate bagels and cream cheese. You slept on a Greek rooftop. You stole cigarettes and pop-tarts from Safeway. You tried to kill yourself seven or eight times. You watched the eclipse and waited for the world to end. You laughed easily when prompted. You made your own furniture. You carried around a pocket dictionary. You held your shoulders close to your ears. You lazed on the grass of Prospect Park every summer Saturday. You despised television. You weren't confident in your ability to use chopsticks. You thought you looked like someone other than yourself. You were afraid of full-moons. You sent long letters from jail after robbing a post office. You drew pictures of demonic clowns. You were turned on by watching other men fuck your wife. You ran the New York marathon. You were terrified of driving on highways. You made your bed meticulously.
You shift in your seat. You check your email. You throw out the trash. You wash your hair. You brush your teeth. You say yes. You say no. You pass gas. You open the door. You watch the sun through a window. You check the time. You cross your legs. You do a pull-up. You open the mailbox. You fold and refold a napkin. You eat a piece of toast. You drink a glass of water. You blink. You wait. You peter back and forth. You tap your fingers on your knee. You sweep crumbs across the floor. You itch a scratch. You doodle a smiley face on a receipt. You answer your phone. You say goodbye.