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Posts Tagged ‘endings’

“What’s the point of work? Or marriage and kids? We ‘re born, we grow up,  go to school, work, get married, have kids and die.”

“It’s whatever point you want it to be. You’re in charge.”

“You get up, go to work,  come home,  go to sleep, get up,  go to work, maybe relieve a bit of tedium in a bar or someplace…”

“So do something else!”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Of course I understand. Just about every single person who’s alive thinks the same thing at least once in their life.”

“Marriage. Tying yourself down and merging yourself legally, financially, all that to someone else, and for what? So ten years down the road, you divorce? And if you have kids, they grow up to hate you? And you buy a house with a mortgage and you’re stuck with that for 40 years…”

“What’s brought all this on? Existential crisis?”

“Mmm-hmm. Well,  at the party yesterday, I was talking to somebody about life…”

“The tall woman with the long hair?”

“She’s very smart.”

“Oh.”

“Julianne can’t help that she’s beautiful,  I mean, smart! ”

”’Julianne?’ Kevin, you want that woman.”

“I… Yeah.”

“Wait, you’re dumping me? Here?”

“I’m sorry, Sheila.”

“All this agita was fake?”

“I’ll get my stuff out tomorrow.”

“To think we would actually have a real conversation…”

“But I agree with you; it’s all a choice.”

“No wonder we’re at Starbucks. You bastard.”

“Yeah, well. Good luck with life. Really. I mean that.”

Reader, I punched him.

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“What are you smiling about?!”

What am I smiling about, Dom? No matter what’s happened, no matter the outbursts you’ve subjected me to in court, I’m fine. I’m achieving my goal in the next few minutes in this aerie that’s my lawyer’s office: Liberation.

You’ve said a lot of shit about me to the media. Why anyone was willing to believe such a classic case of projection, I don’t know, but never mind. I’ve gotten a clean bill of health and soon, I’ll never have to see you again.  Ever.

What a shame you convinced yourself – and me – that you were the marrying kind or that libel would get rid of your guilt about cheating (and cheating and cheating and cheating). Tatum’s said I’ve been too merciful, that I should sue. No,  the world sees you for what you are, and that’s enough. An inadvertent public service, really. Oh, here comes Tatum with the papers! I’m giddy! I’ve got my own pen, thank you!

I’m with someone else – not in the business, bless. Hardly anyone has friends out here, but Marc’s my friend. He’s read a book or two. He’s been by my side the entire time. He treats me with real loving care. He’s an actual adult. I’ve heard he’s been compared to “a young David Gilmore” too, which I didn’t notice before, but, woohoo!

And look at you, Dom. An immature, creepy sex addict. ‘Get my revenge’? When you already have to live with yourself? Completely unnecessary.

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For the sake of argument,  let’s say the man’s dead.

I must ask: all that money he had, and it only went to fighting? He couldn’t funnel money into, say, researching and creating an alternative to oil so that entire regions of the world wouldn’t be dependent upon one energy source? If he had, the West wouldn’t be there! Maybe that was just an excuse. And for what?

I don’t cheer, but I don’t feel sorry for him. He had a chance to use his money and education for more than a pissing match with the West. He could’ve led the Middle East to a future that went beyond oil, but he didn’t. And for what?

In those last seconds in the firefight, I wonder, was all of this death and destruction worth it to him? Was there a moment when the horror of realization struck, that “this never changes”? Was he so wrapped up in being the holy martyr that he forgot: it never changes? That no one ever wins?

Eurasia has always been at war with…

As seriously as these men on both sides take these wars, in the end, it’s still the same old “mine is bigger than yours” racket that’s gone on since the savannahs. Thus, hundred of thousands more have had to die since 2001. Why?

Jay and Jackie, whom, granted, I didn’t know well, are still gone.  Hundreds of thousands of civilians, men, women and children – gone. Thousands of troops – gone.

And for what, again?

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“Could I see a little more gravitas? Your father is dead and you think something’s going on, but you’re too afraid to find out, yes? Again. Please.”

“’K. Ahem! Oh, that this tootoo solid FLESH wouldmeltthaw and resolveITSELF in to a DOO! Or that th’Everlasting had not fixed hiscanon against self-slaughter! O God! GOD!”

“Stop.”

Rebecca Nelson warily regarded Colleen Lucas.  Rebecca hadn’t cast this all-woman Hamlet; she came on to direct only today, when Sheila Rodriguez called begging for help. Millicent Taylor had fallen ill. “Walking pneumonia”. No matter; the problem now was Colleen Lucas was terrible and Rebecca suspected Colleen had gotten extremely cozy with Millicent to get the part. There was no denying that she was lovely to look at, but seemingly that’s all she was. Was it too late to reframe the show? Rebecca knew several actors who would be splendid, including one who looked like a younger Kevin Kline.

Try to work with what you’ve got, Becs.

“You have read Hamlet?”

“Yes, ma’am. It was sad.”

“What do you think Hamlet’s problem was?”

“Hamlet’s the real king, and his uncle stole the crown.”

“Are you sure that’s the issue?”

“Yeah!”

“’Mad’ here means ‘crazy’, not ‘angry’.”

“Oh… OK. I’m so silly.”

Colleen batted her eyes.

Poor thing. I’m not gay.

“Why do you want to do this play?”

“’Cause it’s famous!”

Oh, Millie. You must bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, because this child must go.

“Come sit by me, Colleen. Let’s chat.”

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His mouth is moving into the proper formations of nice-sounding words, but… It’s true what they say that to listen involves more than sound waves thrumming through to vestibular nerves. I’m listening with all my senses, and I hear him clearly. He’s lying.

I’ve never understood why it’s so hard for people to tell the truth. As if I’ve never been dumped before. Sure, it hurts, but that’s just the ego. I am not my ego. If I’m not what he expected, then no harm, no foul. Honestly.

Great, he’s asking me to come with him to his cousin’s wedding. He doesn’t want to go out with me anymore, but he can’t show up somewhere without getting grief for going stag – and he can’t handle it. Perhaps he’s not as mature as I thought.  “You’re 37 and unmarried!? Whatever are we to think?” I’m not saving face for him. The hell with that.

I wish he could see himself. Shoulders slumped like sacks of wet concrete. He keeps looking away; he can barely stand to look at me. And that’s the most monotone-y monotone in the history of monotones.

And… dodge.

You don’t have to put your arm around me. I don’t need reassurance. Anyway, it’s not me, it is you. It is most absolutely you. There’s a man out there who will appreciate me exactly as I am, and me him. Wish you weren’t such a coward, though.

“Hold up, Darryl. There’s something I need to say to you.”

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“Mmmm. Your hair smells terrific.”

“Nice try, but we’re having this talk. Don’t pull that face.  I didn’t shoot a puppy.”

“C’mon, now?”

“Yes, now. When are we getting married?”

“Aw, Marcy…!”

“’Aw, Darren!’ Married. When?”

“Ai-yi-yi.”

“That’s great. We’ve been dating for 3 years. I’ve never hidden that I want to be married.”

“Dammit.”

“’Dammit’, what?”

“If I get married, then there’s kids, right? A house. In-laws.  All that stuff, day in, day out, closer to oblivion. I gotta be free!”

“Hate to break it to you, oblivion is coming regardless. Youth fades regardless. No amount of ‘freedom’ will stave that off.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

“Go ahead, then, go out and act like you’re 20 for the rest of your life. But you aren’t going to waste any more of my time if you’re too much of a coward to grow up.”

“Why can’t you just have fun and enjoy the moment?”

“Why can’t you just face the fact that you’re selfish?”

“If I marry you, then it’s not just losing my freedom, it’s multiple options I’m leaving off – forever!”

“Avoiding choosing is a choice.”

“Then I make my choice. I’m not marrying you.”

“That’s your choice.”

“Yup.”

“Then I wasted all this time!”

“…Since all I mean to you is a check off the list.”

“No, I…! I… That’s not true!”

“I can love you and not want to be married!”

“Then I need to find someone whose definition of love is the same as mine.”

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INT.  LIVING ROOM – DAY

MRS. JOHNSON (80s) and LUCIA (30s) are seated drinking tea in an almost-Victorian living room. Sunlight streams through open floor-to-ceiling windows.

MRS.  JOHNSON
So kind of you to visit me, my dear… Lucia, is it?

LUCIA
Yes, ma’am. It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Johnson, really!
The two single ladies of the block! This won’t be my only visit!

MRS. JOHNSON
No?

LUCIA
Next time, I’ll bring scones and cream!

MRS. JOHNSON
Ah.

LUCIA
Then it’s settled. You have a lovely home.

MRS. JOHNSON
Thank you.  I was raised here, married
here. I raised my own children here.
Everyone’s gone now. But I’ll never leave.

LUCIA
It must be hard to keep up such a large… gorgeous… house.
I haven’t lived in the neighbourhood for very long, but I couldn’t
help but notice that no one comes over. Aren’t you lonely?

MRS. JOHNSON
Not at all.
(calling)
Bailey!

A large white dog with fluffy fur gambols up from seemingly out of nowhere. Lucia sets down her cup, Bailey playfully jumps on her.

LUCIA
He’s… friendly!

MRS. JOHNSON
Quite the funster. Like his siblings.

Six similar dogs appear and swarm Lucia, pulling her to the floor and covering her.

LUCIA
URF! ACK! BLARGH!

MRS. JOHNSON
What? Sorry, a bit hard of hearing!

Lucia soon goes limp. Mrs. Johnson goes to take Lucia’s pulse as the dogs trot away.

MRS. JOHNSON
Of course, they left a mess. Tea should
have been outside. I really must think
these things through.

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