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A monologue from the play by Sheila Callaghan
Anima is sitting in a bar and talking to an unseen stranger. She is a little drunk and a little lost.
What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, in form and move and inespresso ada-mahble . . .
That’s Shakespeare. I know more. I played Hamlet once in college. It was for a video project but I was good.
No one could believe a chick Hamlet could be so g*ddamn good. Why not? Men played women’s roles for years and years and years, no one had a problem.
I made people CRY. Because I could hear them, a**face. Sniff-sniff from behind me, honking into a hanky in front of me, wet gurgling noises on my right . . .
That’s a f***ed-up feeling, you know? People who don’t even know you, they believe so hard in your lie they make it their own.
I’m not going to tell you my f***ing name. I’m not here to get hit on. I’m just having a cocktail. (She drinks.) An actor, really?
Quite a rarity in these parts. No, I don’t act anymore. I study. Eighteenth-century theater. No, Shakespeare was earlier.
No, Tennessee Williams was later. No, Galileo was an astronomer. It’s OK, everyone gets them mixed up. Get off me.
My friend is picking me up. My roommate. My new roommate. She’s brilliant. She’s going to be a doctor soon.
She analyzes women. Not a f***ing shrink. She just does, then she makes history out of it. (She drinks. A beat.)
No, but thanks. She’ll be here any minute. Because I know. She takes care of me.
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