I seem to have this *pauses, struggling to find the correct word* affliction. It's this annoyance that tingles through my neck, traveling down my arms and into my ever fidgeting fingers.
It's this irritation at anything that isn't in the exact right place that I want it. For example that bookcase, there is no exact order to it. *begins to list things off on fingers. the tone of voice changes to annoyance and the pace of talking increases till the last line is yelled* It's not organized by either colour, author, height, there is no synchronization between the books they simply lie in this horrific sense of randomness and it kills me to see it like that. Why don't you allow them some organization?
*takes a deep breath and the tone of voice is calmer* But it doesn't matter because it's your bookshelf, not mine, and I have no right to lecture you because it's your life, not mine, *emphasis is put on the words* but my life thrives on organization, it's the only thing that keeps me sane.
Co - ordination is key my mother always said. An organized house is a house that wards off any snoopy onlookers, as a home with precision organization gives off the impression of nothing to hide, which obviously makes it easier to hide things. *talks as if paranoid* Not that there's secrets or anything to hide in my house, that's a ridiculous notion why would you even ask that?
*said in a way to change the topic* If you want someone's house that has secrets to hide, just looks in Merideth Lane's house. That woman has so many boxes laying around her house you wonder how she has enough things to put in them, or what she puts in them. You know I've seen her on a full moon, where the light sheens, accentuating the hollow, unevenness of her face. Her long skirts sweep over the grass as she circles that unsymmetrical tree.
She's most certainly a witch.*shivers in disgust* Witches are the most unorganized beings in the world. Everything's a clutter; there's no precision.
Organization allows for control over all things. And control means that I am the dealer of my fate which makes me calm, rather than stir crazy and awake all night. *said in a paranoid way* Not that I'm crazy that's a ridiculous notion, why would you even ask that?
*said calmly but the annoyance is evident in voice* I just simply, like, thrive, live for organization, precision, and calmness. How hard is that to get across?
*gets defensive, pointing* Don't look at me like that. Do not give me that look.
*words begin to mesh into each other from getting defensive. Tone of voice escalates* I have been given that look since I was six years old and threw a tantrum because of the unorganized bookcase in the classroom that wasn't dissimilar to that one, but it doesn't matter because it's your life and not mine and where not here to talk about the clear uneasiness and mental struggle that you are going through and don't tell me you aren't because anyone who has a bookcase organized like that, has some serious issues.
*Takes a moment to heavily breath out frustrations before continuing with an irritated calmness*
I know what that look means. You think I'm crazy, bonkers, not fit for public life but only for the white walls of an institution. Well, I am not crazy. *emphasis is placed on each word* I simply enjoy all aspects of precision, organization, and order.
That's all there is to it. A lot of things can be controlled, saved even by this way of life.
*said in a careless way, no hesitation* My parent's marriage, for example, could have been a lot less broken if my father had applied any precision, organization or order to his affair. *pauses to think. Gets standoffish* Maybe if he was a little bit more precise with where he placed his feet each night as he snuck in pretending to have been home the whole time? Or organized his meetings a little bit better, so he at least came home for dinner more than no nights a week? Or maybe he could have ordered that twenty-thousand dollars ring a bit more subtly than having it turn up at our door, attached with a note asking her to marry him?
Perhaps he doesn't understand that my mother's need for perfection runs as deep as mine for organization?. That would explain why he keeps doing it, not knowing that my mother will do anything to get their marriage back to the perfect facade it once was.
*pause. things are said in reassurance and with an asserting nature*
I never actually participated. I just know about them all. This is the reason control so important.
I never ask details, because the moment I do my life becomes more secretive than it already is. It will no longer be orderly, but chaotic with the knowledge of what my mother really does. And when things get chaotic, they slip, and we can't have that.
I don't know if she kills them or sends them off to some remote island, but I don't want to know. All I'm concerned with is the correct order of my family. My mother, father and me. No less and no more.
Dad now lives with us in Chicago, the way it should be, the way we've been trying to get it for the past eighteen years.
And it's precision, organization, and order that will keep it that way.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is a new monologue that I've come up with. The asterisk points are a guide only. You by no means have to deliver it like that.
It runs for about 5:30 minutes, but that's only a rough estimate that I timed with the neighbours baby crying in the background! You can make it longer or shorter with your pauses, actions, and blocking.
I'm thinkings on doing a character profile on this monologue, so you can better understand my version of the character. If you're interested in something like that, let me know!
Thanks for reading!
