CONNIE: That's it, gulp it down, oh that's a good big poop. Gulp it down, good little bird. What a good little bird. You see, God, I'm trying to work on my karma. I know, that's like a Pagan thing, I think, from India or China, I'm not sure, I've been to school and everything, and don't know that! But―the Golden Rule, right? That's karma, right? Do unto others. I try and try to be a good person, not be mean, work, pay my bills, take care of myself, not spit on children or kick dogs or run over bicyclists, though it's so tempting, right, when they ride right down the middle of the road in their silly, too-tight outfits, I mean, come on, don't you just want to smash them with your car and laugh at them, then back up and run over them again?? Maybe that's just me.
Karma, I was talking about karma. What would my karma be if I took a gallon of Tylenol? Connie, I can hear you saying in your Sean Connery voice, I imagine you, God, have a voice like Sean Connery and that the Devil has a voice like Cary Grant ... don't ask why, that's just what I hear. In my head. "Connie," says God―"it was going to get better the very next day. You were going to get a job interview, you were going to be published in some vastly important New York poet magazine, and you were going to win the lottery, many millions, and be able to pay your bankruptcy lawyer. If you had just waited a day. Only a day."
[Stops feeding birds, puts syringe down.]
But I've been waiting for the good things to happen for years now. I've been patient. I send out resumes, I act nice, I go out of my way for my friends when I can. Is that why I never get anywhere? Cause I wait? Cause I try to be as small as possible, not make any noise? I even write polite poems. About nature and waterfalls. Nothing profound. I'm not profound. At all. I never let myself be. I write pretty, shallow poems to please everyone and they please no one. So I drown in debt, I take jobs that eat my soul, and I ... I, oh let's be honest, it's just us three―I wish I had died at birth. Cause this is far far harder to get up every day and not face things than ... than being a soccer mom with a Down's Syndrome baby. And so I take care of baby birds my dad knocked out of their nest. Yeah. I'm too old to care about this, I should be all grown by now, and be all indifferent to everything but my credit report.
[Smiles, moves away from table.]
I'll never be a mom. Or a wife. I've spent my life in school, working crappy jobs, waiting for the mail, or lately, the emails that don't get sent. Or the emails that say, sorry, we don't want your shallow crap, good luck not being a writer, ever. Don't you wish ... rejection letters were honest? That the editors would just say, plainly, once and for all―you can't write. Try marine biology. Or dead animal removal, I hear they're always hiring. I would so love to get that rejection letter! I could finally stop wishing, hoping, waiting, dreaming! I could stop all that crap. It would be so nice. I could finally give up and move on, whether it's nursing school or a razor blade. This being in limbo all the time, waiting for dreams to come true ... it's cruel. Believe in your dreams!! "Hang in there, someday it will happen," my friends keep saying. They have houses and lives. They have money in the bank and go on vacations. They have children. A couple even have grandchildren by now. I have ... nothing. I have nothing to show. No awards. No college teaching position, just until my book gets published crappola. I didn't mean to get on this, God. I didn't mean to get all ... maudlin.