In honor of the WORST DAY OF THE YEAR, I’d like to share this monologue with you, from my play The Bedmaker’s Revenge, which I wrote for a 24 hour play festival years ago that happened like DURING Daylights savings time, in which a Disgruntled Sleepfairy Speaks. Clearly someone (me) was very tired when she/I wrte it.
How are you? Tired? Oh – You’ll have to excuse me, I’m already in my pajamas. So Are you tired? I’d like a count, please, how many of you are tired?
Please don’t really raise your hand. You’ll make the person next to you feel very uncomfortable, and that person is probably tired. There was something important I – I was –
( She thinks and dreams.)
I’m sorry, I had something important to say, but I was thinking of sleep. Ah. So how tired are you, if you could measure it? How many cups of tired?You’ve had your Coffee, I bet, this morning. And then more coffee, coffee part two, then wine with dinner – your bed is looking pretty good right now, isn’t it? Well – your bed or the bed of your lover – the person you have chosen with which to bed. By the time you get out of here, the 43 minute commute – by the time you’ve twice fed the whiney cat and taken out all recyclings – the getting of mail and the clipping of fingernails – you’ll get five and half hours of sleep.
Not enough. Didn’t your mother ever teach you?
You have to be at work by nine, which means you’re up by seven, to allow for the hair-scrubbing and face scrubbing to give the ILLUSION of adequate sleep. Then there’s the getting of the egg sandwich after the fiasco in which your metrocard expires and there you find yourself, tired, tired, cussing in front of small children.And There’s somewhere to be tomorrow night, too. Obligatory. You won’t get a real night’s sleep until Friday, and then if you sleep in Saturday, you’ll have wasted half a free day, and I can tell you’re not the type to waste anything.
There was something important to say, somewhere – there something – I love beds, don’t you? I was saying something. Oh.
(She clears her throat, official, then Loud: )
ONE NIGHT EVERY YEAR, YOU ARE VIOLENTLY AND MALICIOUSLY AND VICIOUSLY ROBBED OF ONE HOUR OF SLEEP. I’m sorry. It just really pisses me off. It’s not my doing, I promise. It’s got something very complicated to do with gravity or the growing of grass. Cruel and unusual. Maybe it’s handed back to us months later, but by then, the tired has already happened, been dragged out over hundreds of days. And for the following days, we find ourselves discombobulated. Picking fights, Swinging our large bags into innocent strangers. And by we – I mean you.
I think was saying something.
If you oversleep you lie like a dog and pretend you didn’t. Your forgot your keys or she forgot your keys or something exploded or someone died. When you wake up, you are a like a baby, clenching your fists and kicking your feet. I hear that sometimes, you’re so tired, it’s like you’re drunk. You forget what it’s like to not be tired and this becomes a constant feeling of average despair, which feels like life.