The ‘C’ Word
A Monologue
“I’m not flaky, you intolerant bastard.
I’m flighty.
I just despise the “C” word. Give me a cigarette, would you?
No, not cunt you animal. . . the ‘C’ is for commitment.
To what? To everything. To everyone, even myself. I hate to feel constricted. I hate committing to bills because anything that requires a bill rapidly depreciates in value. I hate committing to events because it never fails when that scheduled occasion arrives, the one I am frantically rushing to because it turns out I don’t much like punctuality either, is the last thing I want to do in the whole wide world.
I absolutely cannot stand committing to a man, or a woman. Women are clingy, needy creatures who are never satisfied, and their moods are as mercurial as I am.
Men become lazy. Boring. Predictable. They court you, spoil you, even place you on a pedestal for maybe the first three months; then POOF, you’re just another dame they laid and they keep you around for dependable sex or when they need nurturing.
I mean I cannot even commit to my dreams. I have too many interests in this life. And as soon as I begin to gather any momentum, in the direction of my dreams, POW, like a rocket I am blasting off to the next adventure that’s piqued my interest. I simply cannot sit still.
I’m not fucking immature. I am free. I only have to answer to me, and I am not that hard on myself anymore.
Oh, kiss my ass. I don’t remember asking your opinion on what I do with my life.
I am not a commit-a-phobe. I am not afraid. I simply don’t like feeling tied down to anything or anyone. I don’t need to make commitments to feel responsible or important.
Yes, I almost did. Once. You know that. But I was young then, we were young then. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. Be a good woman.
What the fuck is a good woman?
That’s what a good woman is, huh? Well excuse me while I spontaneously combust because if that is the definition of a good woman, then I’d have been burnt at the stake.
Why couldn’t I commit to you?
Wow, you’ve never asked me that before.
Mick, hand me a lighter.
You were always too sensitive for me. And I was seeing that spoiled little rich girl from New York. What was her name?
Yeah, Alicia, that’s it. And I was having fun. And you were always so serious. It’s like I had to. . . be a grown up with you. I was. . .afraid. Anxious and out of my element.
No, not afraid of you. I’ve never feared a man. I was afraid that. . . I couldn’t do it. That I would hurt you. That I would disappoint you somehow.
When we were together, I felt something I had never touched upon. As exhilarating as it was, I never felt I could welcome it to stay. I couldn’t accept it. You know nothing in life ever lasts. So, I have learned to accept things as they are, while they’re in existence. Then I say goodbye to them. It is only natural. Inevitable.
I have tasted loss many times in my life. If I insisted upon holding onto those memories and feelings, well, I’d be in a mental institution.
That is where you’d want me, isn’t it?
Look, it’s just not who I am. Children, marriage, stability, it’s asking for complacency.
Thank God for cigarettes.
Now there’s something I can commit to.”
