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A monologue from the play by Lanford Wilson
PALE
G*ddamn this f***in place. How can anybody live in this sh*thole of a city? I’m not doin’ it. I’m not drivin’ my car in this g*ddamn sewer.
Every f***in’ time. Who are these a**holes? The f***in’ guy thinks he owns this space. Like the city’s got this space specially reserved just for him.
Twenty five f***in minutes I’m drivin around this garbage street; I pull up to this space, I look back, this baby sh*t-green Trans Am’s on my a** going beep-beep.
I get out, the f***er says “that’s my space” I showed him the f***in’ tire iron. You want this space? You’re gonna wake up found out you slept in your car.
This ain’t your f***in’ space if you treasure your pop up headlights. Am I right, or am I right. That sh*t? There’s no talkin’ to sh*t like that.
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