Vonnegut Monologue

But I was a changed child. Months of pampering and the ridicule of my cousins had turned me inward. But now when the world filled me, I could no longer draw it out. I was sullen and dependent on my mother’s sole attention, tender-hearted, and whiney: the classic temperament of the artist but without anything to show for my bad character.

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.

A pair of dark lavender eyes split open as a young man startles awake with a gasp of frigid air entering his lungs. His body is aching and burning as if he has been running for miles without rest. "Where am I?" the man rasps out in between a huge gulp of air. He looks to his surroundings and sees the shadows cast by the morning light spreading over the many bodies littering the ground around him.

You run, stumbling over roots and rocks, terrified out of your mind. You cannot think, and your breath comes in stutters. Your instincts tell you to hide, to try to outrun the being that is ravaging the corpses of your fallen comrades. You do not know where you are going, but your brain and your body are screaming at you to GO AWAY RUNRUNRUNRUNRUN so you do.

My Fluffy, Yellow Rear-End "Hey, look at his butt!" Jack whispers, sending his friends into ceaseless bouts of giggles. After fifteen minutes of meticulously planned instruction, the group of five-year-olds retained one idea: Winnie-the-Pooh's hindquarters were much more entertaining than learning about hand hygiene. I demonstrate proper handwashing techniques once more, while my pride, and the minute remnants of Vaseline on my hand, make a Usain Bolt-like dash towards the drain of the polished metal basin. As a teenager, fitting in was an enigma in itself.

Good Evening my fellow neighbors. Most of you know me and for the ones who do not, I am Mabel Dodge. I am the daughter from a family in Buffalo and had what was considered the best education for girls in the nineteenth- century. Instead of going to college, I got married, became a mother and soon, a widow. Later, I traveled abroad and soon married a Boston architect, Edwin Dodge who I later realized the passion I had was no more- so I divorced him. I became bored and began to crave art, the beauty and inspiration! A “salon” in Florence, Italy that I created for the purpose of attracting the most up- and- coming artists in Europe, had me become well known and even a muse for one of Gertrude Stein’s image poems. I reluctantly joined Edwin my husband at the time, who was eager to come back to the United States. I settled in an apartment on the lower Fifth Avenue which most of you have been in for my “evenings” of controversial debates.

It was a quiet Friday night, school had been let out, and she sat in her room enshrouded in darkness. The sun had long since set, and the stars twinkled merrily above. Smiling softly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out an mp3 player and some earbuds. The device was old, and it was a wonder the thing still even worked, but then, she didn't have much.

The couple sits on their couch in the living room of their large two story home, they moved into early in the summer, newly built, beautifully decorated. Both staring at their flat screen T.V watching pictures of their son flash across the screen with tears in their eyes.

Alright, we all know that Newt was hopping mad at WICKED and never once forgot it, but let’s talk about some other stuff that he didn’t forget: - How to be a good mom - I know this sounds like another dumb “mama newt” thing (which, enjoyable as it is, is a pretty huge exaggeration), but he genuinely is a good big, caring brother. Remember how he found Tommy and gave him a blanket? Well, he kept that from his mum. His mum would put blankets over him and Lizzy when they fell asleep. I guarantee this boy made sure all his Glader-babies were tucked in (except maybe Gally).

To my hopes, I was able to publish this chapter much sooner than expected. I'm hoping to get another chapter out this week, but I can't be certain due to the fact I'll be very busy starting on Friday. Anyways, I apologize for any grammatical errors present and please rate and review. Also, sorry for any medical or other inaccuracies. I don't own The Outsiders or it's characters.

After a long day of working to keep my mind busy, I stumbled into my dark, cold, and uninviting living quarters of this cramped, glass clean oxygen bubble they call a “home”. Even though this place keeps the people that were evacuated safely from that lethal, disease infested, and haunting gas cloud waiting to strike on the outside, it doesn’t help ease the pain and terminate what my brain forges in my head with every breath I take. Every day I vented to myself how different my life has become. I can’t seem to fill the void that I hold in my soul and I feel like the guilt I hold will slowly rot away anything that brings me joy. Luckily for my soul, I’m tired of keeping it on the inside and if I'm going to preserve what little happiness I have

People always have more potential than it looks. That’s because people can have talents that can change the world. Some people look like ordinary people, but they may be more special than you think. Once, I was at the park. Lots of people were there, but one person caught my eye.

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.

to accept it, this is my eternity, i'd stay here forever and ever. I guess this is it, my whole life and it's all wasted. I wonder if I could have done anything different, maybe be kinder, give to the poor, I don't know. I'll never get married or have children.

I was a productive woman, and I wanted people to see it in me. I wanted them to see it in the way I walked. I wanted them to see it in the way I talked. I wanted them to see it in the way I worked late every night to make my patients, and the world, a healthier, better place. Most importantly, though, my productivity was expressed in the way that I raised my boy. I wanted Eugene to be as perfect as I was, and I worked my hardest to keep all distractions from him. Still, he always managed to slide his face into the pages of his books every chance he got. I didn’t see the point in it. He had the top marks out of everyone in his class, so what was the point in reading books that didn’t improve his grades? I didn’t