Erynne, 17, troubled punk girl, lies on the bed writing in her journal. She speaks to the audience.
(Warning: Using this monologue without permission is illegal, as is reproducing it on a website or in print in any way.)
I live in a one-story ranch house in Rosedale—our neighborhood, when I was real small, used to be pretty good, but that was before people stopped mowing their lawns and started parking their cars on their yards. And that was before the creepy sex offender moved in two doors down who keeps his door open all day long—So he can keep an eye on the neighborhood and make things safe for his own brand of insanity. Anyway, we used to have a downtown, with a movie theatre and everything, and you could even get something to eat there, but eventually all the stores closed except for the Big Lots, which kind of gobbled up the other stores around it like some kind of cancerous octopus—and you know, I love the three-liter bottles of generic soda as much as the next guy, but do we really need the gigantic rolls of toilet paper? So the Big Lots sits there like the Tower of Sauron, this malevolent, oozing pimple on the face of the town, and I guess the rot just radiated from there, and so what we have left—what we have left… what we have left is a Wal-Mart, a Target, a whole selection of fast food restaurants, and a high school. If it were me, I’d just burn the whole place down and start over.