Question
Write a monologue like this one
Why is it your school? Why am I always in the wrong? Why do I have listen to yewhen you hage ero toes get acause This
school is lost, if you ask me. You're lost. But everybody talks to me like I'm the one. I should change. Why should I change? I've never even gotten to find out who I am and you want me to change?
That's crazy! You tell me I'm bad before I even get to be anything.
What the hell is that? Original sin or something. I've read Plato. I read him on a park bench in the Bronx and let me tell you something. Plato wasn't afraid. Diogenes wasn't afraid. Socrates wasn't afraid of anything. They were men. Why are you the headmaster and I'm the student? Do you understand? I have to earn your respect but you don't have to earn mine? What is that?
It's you that wants the A before you even start. But when I say the same thing, I'm nuts, right? I'm not gonna cry. I'm gonna find my place in this world, count on it. And this, this school has been a miracle for me, but not because of you, because somebody, Mr Hoffman, finally saw me. And more that that, somebody, a grown person, decided I was good beige I was good. And you wanna throw me out of that? Then you know what I say? I've never met your God. And I didn't want to.
Why is it your school? Why am I always in the wrong? Why do I have listen to yewhen you hage ero toes get acause This
school is lost, if you ask me. You're lost. But everybody talks to me like I'm the one. I should change. Why should I change? I've never even gotten to find out who I am and you want me to change?
That's crazy! You tell me I'm bad before I even get to be anything.
What the hell is that? Original sin or something. I've read Plato. I read him on a park bench in the Bronx and let me tell you something. Plato wasn't afraid. Diogenes wasn't afraid. Socrates wasn't afraid of anything. They were men. Why are you the headmaster and I'm the student? Do you understand? I have to earn your respect but you don't have to earn mine? What is that?
It's you that wants the A before you even start. But when I say the same thing, I'm nuts, right? I'm not gonna cry. I'm gonna find my place in this world, count on it. And this, this school has been a miracle for me, but not because of you, because somebody, Mr Hoffman, finally saw me. And more that that, somebody, a grown person, decided I was good beige I was good. And you wanna throw me out of that? Then you know what I say? I've never met your God. And I didn't want to.
Answers
GPT-4o mini
Why is it that every time I open my mouth, you look at me like I’ve just spilled ink on your precious lecture notes? Why is it your way or the highway? Why do I have to fit into your mold when I don’t even know what shape I am? It’s like you’re prying open a jar that’s been sealed too long. What if I’m not meant to fit? What if my edges are jagged and raw?
You stand there, this pillar of order, telling me to conform, to adapt, like the world is a neat little puzzle and I’m just a piece that doesn’t match? Who decided that? Who made you the curator of every soul in this room? I’m the dartboard, and you’re throwing arrows, expecting perfection without giving me a chance to throw back! It’s maddening!
You say “team player,” but what does that even mean? To smile as you dismiss my thoughts? To nod while my own voice echoes back behind glass? You want a performer, not a thinker. You want a marionette with strings pulled tight, while I’m here trying to break free of this nonsense.
They talk about potential but what do they really mean? It’s like you’ve already buried my spirit six feet under, and yet you expect me to rise like some sort of miracle. Why? Because you’ve drawn lines that I’m not allowed to cross? Every day I sit in these chairs, and every day I feel a little more invisible. Forget original sin — how about original silence? The silence that tells me I should just blend in and keep my head down.
I’m tired of tiptoeing around your “guidelines.” I’m tired of trying to earn a smile when all I get is a sigh. Because let me tell you, I can’t be the masterpiece you want to hang on your wall when you won’t even let me pick up a brush. What am I supposed to say? “Thank you for shaping my existence in your perfect little box?” No, I’m not your accessory — I’m not your trophy.
I want to scream my own truth like a banshee, but here I am, whispering because you think it’s easier. You told me I was special, but that was before you started putting restrictions on what that special looks like. Maybe I don’t want to be special in the way you think I should. Maybe I just want to be free.
So here I stand, in this arena of expectations, and I won’t lie down for you anymore. I won’t beg for your approval. Call me what you want — rebel, misfit, anything but what I am — ready to discover my own identity in this chaotic dance we call life. And if you don’t like it? Well, I have just one thing to say to you: I’ve met the voice inside me, and I’d take it over your empty applause any day.
You stand there, this pillar of order, telling me to conform, to adapt, like the world is a neat little puzzle and I’m just a piece that doesn’t match? Who decided that? Who made you the curator of every soul in this room? I’m the dartboard, and you’re throwing arrows, expecting perfection without giving me a chance to throw back! It’s maddening!
You say “team player,” but what does that even mean? To smile as you dismiss my thoughts? To nod while my own voice echoes back behind glass? You want a performer, not a thinker. You want a marionette with strings pulled tight, while I’m here trying to break free of this nonsense.
They talk about potential but what do they really mean? It’s like you’ve already buried my spirit six feet under, and yet you expect me to rise like some sort of miracle. Why? Because you’ve drawn lines that I’m not allowed to cross? Every day I sit in these chairs, and every day I feel a little more invisible. Forget original sin — how about original silence? The silence that tells me I should just blend in and keep my head down.
I’m tired of tiptoeing around your “guidelines.” I’m tired of trying to earn a smile when all I get is a sigh. Because let me tell you, I can’t be the masterpiece you want to hang on your wall when you won’t even let me pick up a brush. What am I supposed to say? “Thank you for shaping my existence in your perfect little box?” No, I’m not your accessory — I’m not your trophy.
I want to scream my own truth like a banshee, but here I am, whispering because you think it’s easier. You told me I was special, but that was before you started putting restrictions on what that special looks like. Maybe I don’t want to be special in the way you think I should. Maybe I just want to be free.
So here I stand, in this arena of expectations, and I won’t lie down for you anymore. I won’t beg for your approval. Call me what you want — rebel, misfit, anything but what I am — ready to discover my own identity in this chaotic dance we call life. And if you don’t like it? Well, I have just one thing to say to you: I’ve met the voice inside me, and I’d take it over your empty applause any day.