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A monologue from the play by Libby Emmons
GLORY (forties, African-American)
Glory is a mom and an artist in her 40’s. As she sits on a bench, watching her children play in a playground, she addresses the audience.
I like ice cream better than sex, So kill me. I mean yeah, I’d like to be skinny, but I like ice cream. I don’t like pharmaceuticals, or things designed to make me feel better, I like ice cream.
My partner says maybe I should lay off the ice cream. I say, I don’t drink, I don’t screw around, I don’t do drugs, so shoot me I like a little ice cream at the end of the day. I mean Jesus God, y’know?
I’m supposed to cool it on the ice cream? My one small pleasure? How much do I have to give up? I tried not keeping my favorite flavors in the house, just not bringing home the chocolate peanut butter swirl that calls out to me in the night.
“Glory, come eat me, come stick your tongue into all my swirly swirls!” But then I just ended up eating the ice cream faster, to get rid of the shitty flavor so I’d have an excuse to go buy the kind I like.
I’m home with these kids all day, and when they’re at school I’m running around getting the laundry, the groceries, keeping the place clean, doctors appointments, teacher meetings.
All that bullsh*t I did not want to do, the sh*t my mother always did. Plan a whole week around getting a few hours of proffesional indulgence. Why do you think I’m in it for a half pint a day?
And that’s even down from when the babies were born, I used to eat much more than that, with whipped cream, too.
