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Monologues |
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My student Monologues |
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| Monologues
From Homepage of Matt Buchanan Ever Wish You Could Control Your Dreams? Ever wish you could control your dreams? You know--you go to sleep and dream about whatever you want? Sometimes I think I could really FIX things if I could just dream them right. I guess that sounds pretty stupid. Like last week I had this huge test in Chemistry. I really like Chemistry, but there's so much to remember. I tanked. And I KNOW that stuff--that's what makes me so mad. Who cares, right? It's just a stupid test. But I'm the one who's supposed to be so smart. My Dad wants me to go to medical school, and I guess I do too, but who needs the pressure? I mean, doesn't he have a life of his own? If I turn out to be a moron, what's that to him? "My son, the Honor Student. My son, the Doctor." Can't he talk about sports like everybody else? The first thing he says to me when he gets home: "So, how'd the test go? Another A, right?" I told him we didn't get the test back yet. So that night I dreamed I aced the test. In my dream I remembered every stupid element. I could see the protons and electrons and neutrons spinning around like little solar systems, and I could recognize every one. I think I was flying among them for a while, like with a jet pak or something. Or maybe I WAS and electron. That part of the dream is sort of fuzzy. But the thing was, I KNEW IT ALL. I woke up before the dream was over, so I never saw my grade on the test, but I know I aced it. I had the stuff cold. And the funny thing was, the dream made the real test okay. I mean, I still got an F and all. I still probably can't get an A for the semester no matter what I do on the next test, but I'm okay with it. Look, I KNOW Chemistry. Hey, for one thing, if I didn't, how could I have dreamed all that stuff? I just had a bad day. The next morning I told my Dad I flunked the test. He gets all quiet for a minute, but then he goes, "Well, you'll do better next time, right?" He didn't even freak. I bet he still tells his buddies on Friday that I aced it, though. It's kind of pathetic when you think about it. Arrest Us for What? Wearing Big Pants?I'm skating on the sidewalk and this guy tears out of his shop like I'm the Unabomber or something and actually tries to shove me off the pavement. "Get a job, you punk!" Who's he think he is? Get a job. I'm not doing anything to you. As far as I can see, this isn't your sidewalk. I've been here all day and I haven't crashed into one person. Maybe if he worried less about skaters scaring off his precious customers and more about not selling garbage his store wouldn't be going under. Maybe if he checked his blood pressure once in a while he might live longer. I know one thing: The next time he tries to push me off his stoop, he's gonna wish he kept his hands to himself. Get a job. Get one yourself. You'll need one when your lease comes due and your landlord kicks you out so he can open a yogurt bar or something. This is the same guy who threatened to call the cops on us last week. I wish he HAD called them. What are the cops going to do--arrest us? For what? For wearing big pants? There's no law against skateboards. Call me a punk. I wish he did call the cops. I wonder what the penalty is for a grown man assaulting a juvenile. Not that anyone would've come anyway. The cops are too busy rolling bums and eating donuts to mess around with "skatepunks" who might actually fight back. Skatepunks! What's that about? Just because we skate, does that make us juvenile delinquents? I have a B average in school, I don't smoke or drink, and I never cut class in my life. I don't even sneak into the movies. They don't like the way we dress, so they assume we're criminals or something. My Dad has pictures of himself in the sixties, with long hair and beads and stuff. He looks like a freak! And he's PROUD of it! They're all proud of it. Compared to them we look normal. Barry Kent ruffed me up in the cloakroom today.
He hung me on one of the coat hooks. He called me a "coppers'
nark" and other things too bad to write down. My grandma found out
about the menacing (my father didn't want her to know on account of her
diabetes). She listened to it all then she put her hat on, thinned her
lips and went out. She was gone one hour and seven minutes; she came in,
took off her coat, fluffed her hair out and took £27.18 from the
anti-mugger belt round her waist. She said, "He won't bother you
again, Adrian, but if he does, let me know." Then she got the tea
ready. Pilchards, tomatoes and ginger cake. I bought her a box of
diabetic chocolates from the chemist's as a token of my appreciation."
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Icebreakers
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