From Beef Junkies

Another stand-alone monologue written as a possibility for my friend, Kim. It expands upon ideas from Beef Junkies and could be played by an actress of almost any age, though probably at least in her upper teens. There's a shorter, cleaner version of this one which would work for a male or female actor (I've let some of my students use it). Check out the adult monologue Beef Junkie.

(Warning: Using this monologue without permission is illegal, as is reproducing it on a website or in print in any way.)

WOMAN

People can tell. They can. No matter what dress I wear, what hat with a delicate little bird's nest in it that I put on my head . . . I once went up to a saleswoman at Bloomingdale's and told her I needed an outfit for my grandmother. "She's my size and she's an Eastern Orthodox nun." I don't even know if there are nuns in the Eastern Orthodox religion. I left the store dressed like my grandmother. I don't think she was an Eastern Orthodox nun, but from the stories I heard, she was a very uncomfortable person. I was very uncomfortable.

I think Bloomingdale's should consider installing an electronic fence around their store. A woman was standing by the doorway eating a meatball sandwich. An electronic fence would have kept her away from the doorway. And she knew. She looked at me, and she knew right away. An electronic fence would have at least backed her off. But there's no fence—so she pulls a meatball out of her sandwich—not even out of her sandwich—she rips half a meatball out of her teeth. Do I look that sick? Do I look like somebody so desperate that I'd eat half a meatball after it's exploded on the ground? There should be a fence. Because I should not have to get down on my hands and knees in my dead grandmother's dress and compete with a dog for half a meatball.

The dog knew I was sick. But it was a sympathetic kind of knowing. He knew what it was like to be hungry. To be so hungry for your fix that even a dog might taste like a burger. They don't, by the way, but he didn't know what I knew that. He took one lick and left the half-ball to me.

I love the feeling of ground beef rolling around on your tongue, the way you feel each separate morsel before you swallow it. I'm not some drooling addict. I savor. But I am an addict. I know that. I've been to therapy. I've seen pictures of my intestines with five year old beef still hanging around inside them, I've seen pictures of hideous-looking people who are supposed to be me in thirty years if I don't stop. I once had sex with a short bald man in an airplane restroom on a flight to Rome because he had the last portion of lasagna. I almost got food poisoning from the cheese, and I sprained my ankle. But I didn't stop. I saw a man lying face down in his own vomit screaming for a cheeseburger. That scared me—for a day. Almost. I sprinkled some chuck on my cereal for breakfast, thought I could taper off. The next day I'm on all fours at Bloomingdale's.