Kurt Cobain Monologue

I'm going over to Tyler's house today. For the secound time, and this time Matteo will be there, well I think so. He does have a boyfriend, plus it's just a stupid little crush.

It all started the day I died. I think I should formally introduce myself, My name was Craig Crow and I lived in Alabama on a corn farm with my wife and two beautiful twin sons. We lived in a house with 3 bedrooms and a very small crawl space in the attic. The barn was old with bright red paint and big white sliding doors, we owned 2 horses, one for me and one for my son. The only way for us to get into town was a small green beaten up pickup truck that had been passed down for generations. The house had been passed down just like the truck had been and my whole family is buried here, including my wife and I.

I kept writing. It was hard, but I could get everything off of my chest. I could explain to people what had happened to me. I could tell my English teacher. It was a little hard, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Greasers didn’t cry.

My name is Jimmy Nguyen and I have previously volunteered at Toronto Pearson's Runway Run during kit pickup. As I am entering university this fall and am in the process of applying for scholarships, I was wondering if it would be possible for you to provide a reference letter for me? I understand if you cannot provide one, please just let me know. I appreciate you taking your time to read this email in any case, thank you.

Face pale with terror, Adam's shaky hand moved to switch on the bedside lamp. Images of Fire and Brimstone, and writhing figures, - men, women and children all - screaming in pain as flames consumed their bodies, flowed through his mind. Eyeballs exploded, and liquefied flesh oozed into fiery lava pits, leaving nothing but a collapsed pile of charred bones on the ground before moments later the victim's human form was resurrected in its entirety, and subjected to the same agonising fate again. Over and over, ad infinitum.

Daniella Owusuwaah Ashley Dunn THE 191: Section K 28, April 2015 Avenue Q: Sesame Street Meets South Park Avenue Q is a laugh-out-loud, fast moving musical that is an adult version of Sesame Street that address racism, pornography, homophobia, and the parable of finding one’s purpose in life through satirical songs. On Friday, April 17, I saw Miami’s production of Avenue Q directed by Ms. Saffron Henke at the Gates-Abegglen Theatre. This unique show uses puppets as a shield to explore issues that are often hard and sensitive to talk about; it’s easy to talk about racism when it’s through a puppet. I believe that the goal of Miami’s production of Avenue Q was to present and educated to the community and the students about issues such as

Hi, my name is Finn Pherb, don't laugh. I was run over by a truck while trying to save a child. So, after passing out from the pain, I woke up in a pink room? Shouldn't I be in a white room. "Usually you would be but I thought it looked boring so I changed it to pink. What do you think?" a cute, almost childish, voice asked. Nice I guess if you're a 8-year-old...Wait who said that?

“You like being insulted and dominated, you dumb bitch!” I yell. “You are the kind of guy that would let me slit his throat without a damn fight...” I smile. “Actually, maybe I SHOULD slit your throat and eat that fucker alive right in front of your eyes so for once in your goddamn life, you'd know what it's like to feel as powerless as I do every damn day since the incident!” I throw the baseball bat against the wall, frightening two or three unkillable spiders out of their fissure.

I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything.

The following text is best read in your head, or aloud, with the accent of an Italian Mob-Lord (Or the leader of the Italian Mafia. Or not, free country.)

I walk into my room and throw my bag carelessly on the floor. I’ll study later. I don’t go to my bed but move over to my window and stand there, not knowing exactly why. I open the windows, and even though it’s the middle of winter, the cold wind is most welcome here. I feel my hair blowing around my face and I know it’s going to get impossibly tangled but I don’t care. My lips are dry and too thin top isn’t doing much to keep me warm but I still don’t care. I’m not really sure where my thoughts are taking me but I’m already gone.

The rain had just stopped pouring, and we had all gathered in a park nearby, as a makeshift memorial for Johnny. It wasn’t really a funeral, we didn’t have the budget for that, and it wasn’t like his parents cared enough to give him a proper goodbye.

I had never smelled a corpse before today, but now it fills the air like poison, as cruel to the mind as it is to the nose. It’s pungent, rotten, and sickly sweet, the smile on an assassin’s face before he kills your soul. I don’t want to open my eyes to see the source, but it must be nearby, as I feel his cold skin, roughened by the last few months that probably made him grateful of his death, against my own. My eyelids are heavy, begging me not to lift them, not to move at all, to lie there until God takes pity on me too, and lets me go.

My life was flashing before my eyes, I was realizing what was happening death was coming. Cold and stillness filled the room while the feeling of death started to overtake my body it was a different feeling but it had to come. My limbs felt heavy and I thought real slow everything was slowing down. Just then something odd happened like nothing I ever thought some sound came into the room an annoying buzzing creature.

I do not clearly remember the next few days leading up to the funeral. I know no one was sleeping and emotions were running high. On the day of the funeral, we all were allowed to see him for the first time since the accident. We were instructed to look, but do not touch him no matter what. The accident mangled him so badly on the inside that just one touch and his body would cave in. As I looked upon him, just barely 23, I was in complete denial. I looked him over and over. “It’s not him”, I said to myself. After the family left, they closed the casket; he would not be open for the public. At one o’clock, January 16, 2001, his funeral began. I remember each part of the service. I remember every word that was spoken and every song that was sung. As the last song played, Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces”, four people in black walked down the aisle toward the casket. The looks in their faces were