A monologue from the play by Stephanie Alison Walker
NOTE: This monologue is reprinted with the author’s permission. All inquiries should be directed to the author at: email@example.com
I can’t take it anymore!!
I’m up every day at five. Every day. Up at five, go for a jog, take a shower, wake Sally, cook breakfast—something healthy—
egg whites, flax, kale, organic coffee, sprouted wheat. Sit down with Dave and Sally for breakfast. Eat a tiny portion.
Be sure to leave some on the plate. Always leave some on the plate. Get dressed. Something feminine, flattering.
Kiss Dave goodbye. Make sure to give him a little something worth coming back home to. Check on Sally.
Comb her hair. Pack her lunch. Wait with her for the bus. Hug her goodbye. Make sure that hug lasts all day long…
that she feels your arms around her even at recess when the mean kids pick on her because their moms don’t hug them enough.
Then let go. Watch her walk away, board the bus. Choke back your tears. Taste the salt slide down the back of your throat.
Go back inside. Check yourself in the mirror. Ugh. Turn around. Turn back hoping to see someone else. Cross through the kitchen.
Pause. Feel the quiet of the empty house. No one watching. What can you eat? Open the pantry, look inside.
Grab the jar of peanut butter. Unscrew the lid. Take a whiff. Stick your finger in the jar of peanut butter. Lick it off.
Feel someone watching you. Shit. Turn around to face them. No one’s there. Put the peanut butter away.
Wash your hands, careful to remove any trace of peanut butter. Reapply lipstick. Head out the door. To work. Again.
This isn’t fun anymore. There’s something wrong with me.