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A monologue from the play by John Patrick Shanley
NATALIE (twenties – thirties)
Natalie, an accountant is having a drink with her old friend Celeste, who is an out-of-work actress.
Celeste is something of a dreamy, ditzy romantic while Natalie is no-nonsense and all business.
All right, I’ll just lay it out for you. You’re a wh*re. . . . Don’t. Please. It’s hard enough without you playing surprised.
Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about the fact that you’re a wh*re. A STUPID wh*re. . . . I’ll break it down for you.
First thing. The count. Let’s do the count. You’re thirty-one. Next year, you’ll be guess what? Twenty-three? No. Thirty-two. And it goes on from there.
Older, older, older. A flight of stairs going down, down, down. You’re like a quart of milk reaching its expiration date.
Have you ever tried to sell a pumpkin the day after Halloween? That’s what you are facing. Are you ready?
I don’t think so. Is it just? Who cares. Pick a fight with God. See where you get. It’s the truth of what it is to be a woman. . . . France!
Then go to France! Climb the Eiffel Tower. Feed the pigeons. Maybe they’ll be glad to see you. Please! You’re in America. Do the math. Next.
You’ve gotta face the facts. You’ve got a birth defect. You’ve got a limp. How many parts are there for limping girls?
Laura in The Glass Menagerie. And that’s it! Have there been any productions of that play? . . . And did you get that part? . . .
Then it’s time for you to stop office-temping and doing Romeo’s girlfriend in acting class and get a bona fide f*cking job.
It’s two plus two. You have to drop the lollipop and pick up the car keys! Next issue. Kenny. This may sound tough, but I’m going to say it anyway.
Kenny’s your best bet. . . . Yes, he’s a loser. But what are you at this point? Maybe together you can pull your car out of the ditch and make some miles down the road.
I know where you’re at, Celeste. There’s a million women like you.
You don’t want to look at your story ’cause you don’t like your story, so you just close your eyes and tell yourself a f*cking fairy tale.
And you know what that makes you? In a world of men? Totally exploitable. ’Cause you want the lie. You got no interest in the truth.
What’s the truth ever done for you? The truth of your life is like a bad magazine. Boring story, lousy pictures.
Which brings me to your mysterious, exciting, cheeseball stud. Who smacks you around because he’s afraid of his wife.
Do I even have to talk about this rodent? A married violent scumbug who slips you a Saturday Night Special for what?
Valentines Day? You can’t look at what this guy pegged the minute he smelled that thrift-shop essential oil you use for perfume.
You’re a pushover. Is this your notebook? . . . What have you been writing? . . . Poetry. You’re going down in flames.
Unless you get it together, they are going to pass you around like chicken wings.
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