Over 160 monologues for girls/women divided into categories: original monologues, monologues from movies, monologues from plays. They are set up on the pages so that they can be easily printed off and handed out.
Example of a monologue for older girls:
(Betty, an average, healthy teenager, is under pressure from overachieving parents.)
Look, I mean I don’t mean to say I have the intellect of a chicken. What I’m saying here is that I’m not Einstein, you know. I’m like this normal person who is just me, that’s all. What am I supposed to be here, anyway, this super brain who is supposed to figure out the theory of relativity while juggling chain saws? I mean. . . c’mon, gimme a break. It’s not enough that I carry a “B” average. Nooo… I have to get “A’s” because my mother and father got “A’s.” All I ever hear is about how they were at the top of their classes in high school and college; how they were National Honor Roll students; how they got scholarships; how they used to sit around and read poetry to each other and listen to Mozart. Can you imagine what would happen if I suggested to Ralph we sit around and rattle off poetry and listen to classical music? He’d be outta here. And who could blame him? My dad’s all pissed because I’m not on the debating team. He just can’t get it through his head that I hate public speaking. Every time I have to get up in front of people. I break out in a cold sweat and my hands get clammy and my heart pounds so hard you can hear it in the next block. Dad says debating will help me think on my feet. No way. Debating helps me faint on my feet. My parents are both overachievers. My mom, for example, is head of the local chamber of commerce and the Democratic Party. Plus she’s on the board at the hospital and is an active fund raiser for the local library. Plus, she takes care of the house, knits, plays a great game of tennis, and can whip up a killer souffle. There isn’t anything she can’t do, anything. She could write the phone book on the head of a pin blindfolded if she set her mind to it. And my dad is the president of his company, a scratch golfer, a volunteer fireman, chairman for the United Fund, and is on the planning committee for the city. He reads the New York Times from cover to cover every day, knocks off a book before bedtime, and figures out his income tax in his head. Sometimes I think my parents aren’t human. And here I am, this lowly “B” student whose idea of an intellectual evening is a pizza with everything, a couple of Classic Cokes, and a few new CDs. I haven’t got a chance. I’m doomed. I’ll never be able to measure up. You know, sometimes I think I’m not their daughter, that there must have been a mix-up at the hospital. Somewhere in the country today there is this super-brainy genius of a kid living with parents who are a couple of normal nerds.
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