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A monologue from the play by C. Denby Swanson
BETTY (twenties – thirties)
Betty and her new friend Olive are commiserating over their recent traumatic breakups. Olive believes in astrology but Betty thinks it’s a crock.
Here’s a reason the astrology column was always in the section of the newspaper with the comic strips and the weird little narratives about bridge games.
Or the back of the magazine. Or the add-on to Facebook, like Farmville, or what, like what, like some stupid little app.
But you take it seriously? Seriously? You take it seriously? You’re one of those people? You, like, have an actual, like you have a person that you call?
Jesus. Did your astrologer tell you that an awful man you loved was going to break your heart?
Did she tell you, don’t go to the fancy Italian restaurant that he yelped and got all excited about, because it’s a set up?
Because you will be ambushed? Did she happen to mention that your boyfriend is a f***ing power hungry f***ing a**hole,
by the way, clue number one is that he picked someplace special and expensive so that you won’t scream and cry—
he thinks you might, by the way, and he thinks he’s being nice when he—when he pulls the plug and leaves you there to gasp for air and die.
Weren’t you wondering, sitting like a dumb a**, not breathing, not moving, as he says what he says, watching the truck come at you, bam!
There’s a $45 entrée and another glass of wine on its way, he says, graciously, get whatever you want, it’s on me, and you don’t wonder why you hadn’t been warned by your F***ING ASTROLOGER?
Instead you quietly sob with your head in your hands and people stare but you don’t make a sound. Do you think your ex just had a better planet in his house that day than you?
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