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A monologue from the play by Michael Rabe
Grete is talking to a young man who has met in a bar. He has brought her back to his apartment.
If we’re gonna f*** we probably should right after these. I’m just saying, it’s late, I’m getting sleepy . . . If I had wanted to rest up I would have just gone to bed.
I didn’t skip my elevator and walk up all those stairs to keep talking about what’s his name though. Eeeenough already . . . “everyone here seems to be living in a perpetual reach to attain” or, like, whatever you were saying.
You realize that doesn’t even make sense. Like, phonetically. Just stop caring so much. Stop caring about sh*t you don’t want to care about. You seem endlessly plagued by things that are out of your control.
It just seems silly to me. Caring about the things you have to care about is enough without adding all this extraneous bullsh*t. You’re not as important as you think you are.
They probably haven’t given any of that half as much thought as you have. You might find it freeing to realize how little you matter. Don’t ask me, just take me and, you’re right we think everything is what it isn’t,
I thought for sure there’s a guy who will f*** me not just be a complete pu**y, not just go on and on but a guy that will just grab me. I just wanted a fun time. Not a philosophy class.