The Francisca With No Last Name (Monologue)
Maybe I could pull a rich kid in Hollywood move and fake my own death! I mean, what kind of ‘love and light’ gibberish is the universe playing at here - a crossroads between two options of selling the only accomplishment of a thrift store you have to a company trying to get you in jail, or keep the store and the perfectly polished facade of the long-haired mystery girl who sells star-studded jeans and army boots for a living…oh yeah, and then also, still anger the company trying to buy you out and possibly- well most likely, go to jail. Nice one, Francisca. I bet if I had stayed with the first foster care family in Chile I wouldn’t be the laughing stock of my own decisions. “The young Brazilian woman of Chile that rollerblades through the marketplace every morning get evicted from an apartment complex with no family to run to”- oh the pity parties I’d have thrown in my name are already circling around in my head. I never had much ambition here, I’ve sort of always thought of myself to be living in a time loop of sorts where I’m the main character and the only thing that changes over time is the length of hair or the songs the neighborhood plays on the weekends. And now? ‘Hey Francisca, remember how you flushed your memory down the drain to throw yourself into a whole other identity so no one would throw sob stories at you for being an unmarried orphan? Yeah, a pack of white men who stuff their mouths with money is threatening to make a spectacle out of it if you don’t sign to a sell-out.’ God, I wish I would have gotten that notification bell sooner. My supposed ‘sister’ or in other words plant mom of a roommate whose parrot might as well render me deaf to a tornado- isn’t any help at all. The woman just sees me leaving as more living space for her- lazy swine. Okay, Francisca, enough stalling, I can have my existential crisis once I’m sure I’ll still have a bed and job while I’m at it- how can I find my way out of two routes that both lead to framed jail time? And why is faking my own death suddenly looking so much more doable right about now? Okay no, if I spend one more hour staring at the ocean without having an epiphany of sorts I might swell turn myself in right now.
