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English 2 - Pahomov

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Silverman Monologue

Alaina Silverman
November 2012


Yes. ‘M here because I threatened to crash my crew into a rocky part of Mars. Yes, that probably would have been kind of bad.  But it’s not my fault!  You know what Com-730 told me -- you know, he’s back on Earth, calls himself Zeo? Anyway. Must’ve had his circuits fried. He had the gall to override my firewall and say “Disparity means instability Tebs!”. Hmph. Just because he’s a hotshot on Earth. I will never refer to myself as ‘Tebs’ especially after the tubby-telly incident last year. Ohhh no, I can sense it over the transmission. Stop laughing. You’re not allowed to call me Tebs either.  It’s Station-8937 to you. Anyway. I’m not a disparity! I’m the model machine . . . why else would the Society send me to orbit Mars? Mars is pretty sparking important, what with all this new agriculture tech being set up. Though this dusty planet with all of its, well, dust is really mucking up my mood. The stuff gets all up in my mechanisms. And last week a couple of mooks took me apart for a solid cleaning. Which would be fine. But they also fiddled with all my calculations and completely threw my rotation off! I’m still not totally right even now.       

Two days ago the head engineer, yeah, Doc! I didn’t know you were his design. Cool. But yeah, Doc came by to check out my computers (which were fine, obviously), but it turns out my electronic fuel manager is wonkified. Which is why I am now talking to you, my dear satellite. No I will not call you Debbie. This is ridiculous and slightly uncomfortable. You’re supposed to talk me down from careening into Memnonia Quadrangle, right? Yes I know these malfunctions show on my transcript! It’s not like I’ll truly be dismantled. No, I won’t. All of my data is backed up on one of the Lunar colonies. I’m tired of the shoddy work the peeps in my cabin spew out. Plus there’s the dust. I always knew my alloys never interacted well with dust.

I’m sure you’re fed up with your job too. Reduced to playing psycho analyzer to perfectly normal Stations like me, even though you were the once mighty International Space Station. Hmph.

Yeah, that was uncalled for. Sorry. But at this point I don’t care if I was to be dismantled this very hour.  No. Don’t call me Tebs. The last machines to call me Tebs were Stations 3865 and 19. Oh jeepers, I haven’t messaged them in over a year. I don’t feel like doing that. Maybe after taking a month long power-down for a full maintenance. I just don’t feel like doing any~thing.

Woah! Woahwoahwoah. That letter you’re sending to the Society better be a recommendation for a power-down. It is? Sweet. I won’t dash myself and all miscellaneous occupants into a crater. If you throw in a new stationing (like Earth! It’s so exciting this time of year), I’ll reconsider going rogue and finding a new solar system.

No? Well then. I’ll take the power-down.
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Reginald Simmons / Monologue

A Cheesy Story

Everything would be better if you just gave me the slice, Jimmy.  It’s just one measly slice. And it’s pepperoni and sausage. That’s not even your favorite kind. You like barbecue chicken. Look, the next time we get barbecue chicken from here, you can have the last slice. Matter of fact, the last TWO slices. How’s that sound? Yeah? Yeah? Okay. No? Alrighty.

I didn’t think I’d have to go to such desperate measures, but you’ve forced my hand.

You know how much I exercise. I need the calories. And the soft dough ... and the cheesy goodness. No, I mean I just need the calories. For my body. You wouldn’t want me to become malnourished, would you? No. Didn’t think so. Right now, you have the power to decide my fate. If you don’t let me have this last slice, I’ll -- I’ll go into a coma. Yup, my body will be all like, “No, no, where's that last slice?! We need that last sliceee!” Okay, maybe it won’t do that, but you get it. Pizza = okay. No pizza = certain death. What if I paid you for it? Okay... five? Ten? Twenty? Thirty? Okay, that’s just absurd. I could but the entire Papa John’s franchise with that kind of money. How about I make your bed for a week? Two weeks? A mon- HEY, I see what you’re doin’ here.

Alright, rock paper scissors. Best three out of five. Okay, rock... paper... scissors, shoot! Darn! Again! Rock... paper... scissors, shoot! Darnit! Best four out of six. Rock... paper...scissors... shoot! Alright, rock paper scissors is for seven year olds anyway. Umm...Oh! I’m thinking of a number. Yes, that is fair! I have nothing to do with the fact you lack the ability to establish a telekinetic link between our two minds.

I’ll give you twenty bucks’ worth of itunes money. You know you want that. Which is better, like, a thousand new songs with that money, or one delic- disgusting, cold slice of pizza that probably has all types of fungus growing on it? Okay, maybe the fungus part is a stretch. Okay, maybe the disgusting part is a stretch, too. But still. That pizza is RIGHTFULLY mine. Because. It just is, okay?

Alright, you can have the pizza.

But wait!

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3 Strikes

            Today is it. Today is the day that I leave this house forever, and never have to be near my mother, or annoying siblings again. Given this may not have been the best way to go, but it’s still better than being in that terrible house right? Why is that even a question? After today I know for a fact that it’s for the best that I am no longer in this house at all. No longer will the person that is supposed to love me most blatantly disrespect me. She deserves to be without me; she deserves to have to struggle to make sure that everything goes fine in the house. Fuck it; honestly she doesn’t even deserve to live! But that will come in time. Until that glorious day, I am happy to just be removed from the situation; whether I am in a cop car or not. Why am I in a cop car you ask? The kid who everyone expects to be perfect? The kid that everyone looks up to, and expects to have the best of the best grades, and the best of the best attitudes? Your cousin? What is he doing in the back of a cop car? He’s never even been to the principles office without leaving with the sound of metal bouncing on his neck from the newest award, so why is he leaving his house with the only sound of medal clanging coming from the handcuffs on his wrists? This makes no sense to you I know. But once you think about it, believe me it will. Sure I was happy, during school, and whenever I was around you. Sure I got all my work done, and made sure that all of my class work was completed. Sure I was able to get the valedictorian award 2 years ago in 8th grade without even having to really try, but what about the things everyone doesn’t see? What about the things that cannot be seen with the naked eye? The things that can only be seen if you get to know this person. Most often these things that cannot be seen are the things that are hurting us the most, and these things sometimes push you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. Especially when they build up inside you, and get released all at once like an irrupting volcano. I should be used to it. It should not bother me that much at this point right? I mean I have been dealing with it all my life. The constant verbal abuse stemming from a sick and bitter mother with nothing better to do than bring you down along with her.

 “Nigga shut the fuck up!” The first 2 strikes came fast and unexpected. As what seemed like half my brain tried to register the pain that I had in my face, the other half was already reacting with a sense of overwhelming anger, and pure hatred. In an instant my brain had chosen whether or not it would go into fight or flight mode, and unluckily for my mother, it had chosen fight. As the pain continued to engulf my face, before I could realize, another strike hit my face. The third strike. Strike three took me to a place I had never been before. The anger that burned inside me; the adrenaline that rushed through my veins; these two things brought me to do something that I never believed I would do; hit her back. My one solid strike to her face had more force behind it than the 3 strikes she had landed on me combined. This resulted in more surprise on the faces of my older sister, and little brother who had been sitting on the bunk bed next to us watching the entire thing. From the moment it happened I knew what would come next, but deep down inside I knew I didn’t care, because I would finally leave the abuse that I had struggled living through for the past 16 years. Not another year, not another month, not another week, day, hour, minute, or second, would I deal with it all. So as I sit here in the back of this cop car and you wonder why I am here? You should be wondering, why am I not here earlier? And the answer would be, because of the three strikes. 

By: Kenyatta Bundy Jr
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