(Monologuist addresses her friend, Marci)

(Speaks quickly)  Listen, Marisa…I’m -I have to- I know I’ve been a bitch to you since I found out about your -about- I think it’s okay -My minds changed -being gay’s okay -in fact your choice is…Well… this is all Brandon’s fault.  I had this dream last night.  This awful horrible…a vision, it was more of a vision -at least that’s what I thought -last night.  I woke up in a cold sweat thinking about Brandon.  I knew I had to break it off.  Cause what he wanted -I couldn’t give -I can’t be what he wants.  I can’t.

He wants me to cut my hair -to lose ten pounds.  Last night, we’re making love -first off, he calls it “rumping” -we’re -after we’re through -he’s always so sweet after- playing with my -running his hand down my stomach.  But last night he grabs a love handle and says “that’s super meaty”.  Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?!  I mean that’s a hint, right?  So like I didn’t know how to take that kind of -I mean who says that, “super meaty” -I’m a woman, not some Dinty More Beef Stew.

I fall asleep, don’t say anything to him about it, just smile and pass out -what a wuss, right? So I have this messed up dream -I’m in a fashion show, right -Brandon is a talent scout, but he’s not my boyfriend in the dream.  And he looks at me and says “Oh yeah girl you’ve got real potential.”  All these guys in white coats strap me to a chair and suck like thirty pounds of fat out of me through some tubes, and these little umpa lumpas are spreading it on bread, and Santa Claus is there taking it to little chil- anyway Brandon is like sculpting me.  Giving all these orders, right, like “lose the upper body, enlarge the breasts, tighten up and round out the ass, fill out the legs, lose the face.”

So there I am.  I get out of the chair and look at myself in the mirror.  I’m just a pair of legs, an ass, and two humungus breasts.  Brandon looks at me and says “perfect, she looks super meaty” and I’m really confused, I mean genuinely confused, I mean crap, where’s my head, and I start screaming “where’s my head” “what did you do with my head” “HAS ANYONE SEEN MY GODAMNED HEAD!” And I wake up screaming  “Head!” so loud that Brandon thinks I’m asking him a question and he says “Sure, I’m always down for some late night head.”  I mean, what is that, right?

And later when I ask him if he thinks, you know, if I’m beautiful, he says; “why don’t you dye your hair like that chick Kate Upton, I bet you’d look real sexy.”  So maybe you can understand why I think men are pigs.  Cause I mean who says that shit!  None of my friends of the non-male persuasion would say that word, “Super Meaty” -what am I a hot dog.

So don’t be so shocked Marisa – I know it’s been a long time in the coming -I know you thought I was doomed to- but I’m not -don’t you see -that frickin’ testosterone douchebag pig -no, that’s not fair -it’s just some guys- that’s how they’re-  But I’m glad I figured it out.  All right, I mean if it wasn’t for him – I really feel freer more alive than I’ve ever -really, really, I’m not shitting you -I mean open the door, I’m coming out -Forget men cause from now on the only thing I’m “rumping” -NO- making love to -is, is , is….

… all right I can say it … don’t wuss out now …

Marisa, I want to be your lover.

—End of Monologue—