More Monologues
Sam's going to hate these, but they're what came to mind.
***
Autumn is my favorite time of year.
Some people prefer the quiet purity of sparkling snow-covered winters, but the cold ruins it for me. I don't like to be bitten in the face by raw, dry air. The view is destroyed when my eyes blur with stinging tears that threaten to freeze to my face. And the quiet scares me -- what if the new life of springtime never comes?
Speaking of spring, some love its eager beginnings. But I've always been put off by its hustle and bustle, the gaudy addition of new flowers and the taunting promise of summer warmth even as the cold nights make me wonder whether winter has really gone. Spring is about immaturity -- and rain. If the pollen in the air isn't full enough of allergens, there's always an unexpected thundershower to leave me wet, cold, and sneezing anyhow.
And when summer finally does come, it's inevitably stiflingly hot. While winter leaves me wet with melting ice, and spring drenches me with rain, summer yields a far more detestable liquid: sweat. No amount of deodorant can cover the stench of overexerted, overweight bodies that lingers in the humid air.
So that leaves autumn, when the temperature is finally comfortable, the rambunctious children are back in school, and the leaves are changing. Yes, autumn is the time of year when the deciduous trees reveal themselves to us, the vanity of summer chlorophyll melting away to reveal the unabashed reds, oranges, and yellows underneath.
Will I, too, be free to reveal my true nature when I reach the autumn of my life? And will my soul, bared for all to see, be as beautiful to the world as the autumn leaves? Or will my final reveal be tainted by the anticipation of the ultimate winter, from which my life will not return?
***
I have never been so frustrated in my life. There's this guy -- he makes me so angry. You know the type -- happy all the time, so sure of himself, confident, collected. So perfect you want to slap him --
And I admit I have, once or twice. I've punched him too. On occasion, my assaults have produced the kind of bruises you can be proud of -- the ones that really are black and blue -- and then purple, and green, and finally a sickly yellow as they fade back into his smooth, olive skin.
He never fights back, either -- at least, not with blows. You might conclude that he's too much of a gentleman to hit a girl, but the truth is, he just thinks he's above physical violence. He retaliates in other ways --
Sometimes, he complains to my friends about my brutality. As if they'll give him a medal for bravery and then punish me for him. But they never do -- they just laugh.
He laughs too, which only makes me angrier. Why can't I hurt him the way he hurts me?
I see the twinkle in his eye as he looks at me, and I know that mischief is afoot. It is when the corners of his mouth turn up almost imperceptibly, allowing his cheeks to dimple slightly, that I know I'm doomed. His most devastating weapon has been deployed, and I will be paying dearly for my transgressions.
Why does he have to be so cruel? After all, everything I've done to him, he asked for, with those broad shoulders and shining teeth. He should know it's his fault, flaunting his assets and doling out kindness when he could be fighting back directly or simply walking away.
Why, oh why, does he have to return my love?
***
***
Autumn is my favorite time of year.
Some people prefer the quiet purity of sparkling snow-covered winters, but the cold ruins it for me. I don't like to be bitten in the face by raw, dry air. The view is destroyed when my eyes blur with stinging tears that threaten to freeze to my face. And the quiet scares me -- what if the new life of springtime never comes?
Speaking of spring, some love its eager beginnings. But I've always been put off by its hustle and bustle, the gaudy addition of new flowers and the taunting promise of summer warmth even as the cold nights make me wonder whether winter has really gone. Spring is about immaturity -- and rain. If the pollen in the air isn't full enough of allergens, there's always an unexpected thundershower to leave me wet, cold, and sneezing anyhow.
And when summer finally does come, it's inevitably stiflingly hot. While winter leaves me wet with melting ice, and spring drenches me with rain, summer yields a far more detestable liquid: sweat. No amount of deodorant can cover the stench of overexerted, overweight bodies that lingers in the humid air.
So that leaves autumn, when the temperature is finally comfortable, the rambunctious children are back in school, and the leaves are changing. Yes, autumn is the time of year when the deciduous trees reveal themselves to us, the vanity of summer chlorophyll melting away to reveal the unabashed reds, oranges, and yellows underneath.
Will I, too, be free to reveal my true nature when I reach the autumn of my life? And will my soul, bared for all to see, be as beautiful to the world as the autumn leaves? Or will my final reveal be tainted by the anticipation of the ultimate winter, from which my life will not return?
***
I have never been so frustrated in my life. There's this guy -- he makes me so angry. You know the type -- happy all the time, so sure of himself, confident, collected. So perfect you want to slap him --
And I admit I have, once or twice. I've punched him too. On occasion, my assaults have produced the kind of bruises you can be proud of -- the ones that really are black and blue -- and then purple, and green, and finally a sickly yellow as they fade back into his smooth, olive skin.
He never fights back, either -- at least, not with blows. You might conclude that he's too much of a gentleman to hit a girl, but the truth is, he just thinks he's above physical violence. He retaliates in other ways --
Sometimes, he complains to my friends about my brutality. As if they'll give him a medal for bravery and then punish me for him. But they never do -- they just laugh.
He laughs too, which only makes me angrier. Why can't I hurt him the way he hurts me?
I see the twinkle in his eye as he looks at me, and I know that mischief is afoot. It is when the corners of his mouth turn up almost imperceptibly, allowing his cheeks to dimple slightly, that I know I'm doomed. His most devastating weapon has been deployed, and I will be paying dearly for my transgressions.
Why does he have to be so cruel? After all, everything I've done to him, he asked for, with those broad shoulders and shining teeth. He should know it's his fault, flaunting his assets and doling out kindness when he could be fighting back directly or simply walking away.
Why, oh why, does he have to return my love?
***