Jitterbug, from The Earth Room, by Marge Buckley


JITTERBUG (they/them/theirs)
no you
shut up.
are you aware of what your father and I survived to get you here?
four times in a row your father moved west in search of a job that would pay him a living wage
and when he finally did, he worked six days a week at that job with no vacation for nearly ten years.
i stood across the street from my childhood home and watched the United States government burn it to the ground to make way for a military base that lasted for fourteen months before it was abandoned.
has your childhood home ever been burned to the ground, Ari?
does it have a radioactive stream in the backyard?
and you
and all of your peers
you get to grow up here
away from all of that
you get to build a new world for yourselves.
i’m not saying that this one is perfect
not by any means
we have worked and worked and worked
to give you and your sister and your friends this chance to build something
from the ground up
and it absolutely breaks my heart
to see you squander it like this.

Context: Jitterbug and their husband George have just caught their daughter, Ari, using simulated heroin in a virtual reality chamber called The Earth Room. The intended use of The Earth Room is to allow Mars colonists the opportunity to walk around outside on Earth, since it is impossible to go outside on Mars and the real planet Earth has become nearly uninhabitable. This monologue comes at the end of a scene where Jitterbug and George are lecturing their daughter and is delivered to Ari.


is my family “falling apart”?
I wouldn’t say that, per se.
don’t look at me like that.
you and your high horse, i swear to god.
no, at this exact moment
I do not know where one of my daughters is
in the grander sense
and I also do not happen to know where either my husband or my second daughter are
in the smaller-scale sense
that doesn’t mean
house, do you know where anybody in this family is right now?
okay, the house doesn’t seem to know either.
it is seven pm and I do not know where anybody in my family is.
but i am not going to panic.
that is not the kind of person that I am.
i am a person with a level head.
a person with their wits about them.
i am going to breathe.
i am going to live in the present moment
and i am going to wait,
because there is nothing I can control about this situation except for myself.

Context: This monologue comes towards the end of the play: Jitterbug’s daughter Ari has stowed away on a freighter back to Earth, daughter Malia has joined a protest group committed to severing all of Mars’ ties with planet Earth, and husband George is secretly participating in an extreme sport that involves racing down Mars’ sand dunes on surf boards. Jitterbug delivers this piece directly to the audience and the “house” is literally their house, which has artificial intelligence.

Playwright: Marge Buckley

Contact: margot.m.buckley (at) gmail (dot) com


Guitarist, from ID, by Tristan B Willis

This is
This is an original
an original song
As much as anything can be original at least
What am I but a copy of my parents
who are copies of their parents
of their parents
of their parents
and perhaps this song is a copy of us
as we are copies of them
or maybe not
Maybe not
You know
there are painters
who spend their lives copying great masters
making reproductions of their work
and sometimes their copies are put on display
while paintings in museums are on loan or removed for cleaning
and no one’s the wiser, no one knows
and really
at that point you have to ask
does it really matter if no one can tell the difference?
There was a woman
you know this story I promise you’ve heard it
a woman in Spain who attempted to restore a detailed painting of Jesus,
covering the original in thick, eager brushstrokes.
And maybe that ruined the painting
or maybe she simply created an original and a copy.
Because this is art and this is life, isn’t it.
Our lovers are copies of the first,
our clothes copies of a pattern,
our work a copy of the one who taught us
whether it was a mentor or the ever-present weight of life,
and maybe this is wrong or maybe it’s okay

And this is an original song.
As much as it can be, at least.

CONTEXT: From the play ID, by Charles Mee and Brittany Alyse Willis, adapted by Tashina Richardson. This monologue is solely written by Willis. As we navigate the world together, we constantly have to juggle and struggle with how we identify ourselves versus how others identify us. In ID, identity, privilege, and more are explored at a dive bar through music, drinks, lively discussion and, hell why not, dancing.

WEBSITE: https://www.tristanbwillis.com

NPX: https://newplayexchange.org/users/8583/tristan-b-willis

Maddox, from Just The Way It Is, by Rory Starkman

MADDOX: Ugh. What am I doing? Okay. Dear Mom. I’m writing this letter to tell you something very important that’s going on in my life that you might not understand. To be fair, a lot of the time I don’t understand myself, but I know we haven’t been close and you want to know about my life. So, here goes. Do you remember when I was younger and I wanted to be a boy? Sure, you indulged me by shopping in the boys section every now and then, but you never really gave up on seeing me as your beautiful little girl. I was always forced to wear a skirt or a dress at fancy occasions and you always bought me tight pink shirts that I hated. But I thought you’d love and accept me more if I maintained a certain degree of femininity. I know it’s not your fault; it’s the social construction of the gender binary. Let me explain. The gender binary says you can be one of two things only; male or female, boy or girl. But it’s a social construct. We made it up! It isn’t real, but we don’t think to question it! You didn’t and I didn’t either. So I’m not blaming you. I understand that we are all just humans working with what we’re shown, how we learn, and our experiences. So Mom, what I really want to say is that I’m not a boy or a girl. I’m not your daughter. I’m just your kid and I don’t want to be gendered as a female anymore. I’m also changing my name to Maddox now and I would appreciate it if you would start calling me that. This has been slow to change and very hard for me, but the process has certainly begun and I know now that it will never end. Love you. (to Maggie) There. Now what do you have to say for yourself?

Context: Maddox is a non-binary trans identified person who spends the whole play recounting their life as assigned female at birth; trying to be a girl named “Maggie”, while discovering their own gender identity in all of its complexity. In the play, Maggie is another character and is present during this monologue to argue with Maddox’s points. The letter is equally to Maddox’s mother as well as their past self, Maggie. The monologue occurs in the show as Maddox realizes the moment when they began to have control over the body that they share with Maggie.

More information:  rorystrongman (at) gmail (dot) com


Dani, from Seams, by Ray Kathryn Morgen

DANI. (non-binary, seam-ripping a thrifted dress shirt.) I buy these old clothes from thrift stores. Sometimes I dive them from dumpsters. I don’t know how I choose them. It’s more like they choose me. They have a certain sparkle, seem to vibrate with a secret energy that others don’t.

They show me what they want to become, usually we discover it together: a cocktail dress, a blazer—usually something formal, sometimes something to relax in, a mumu, or party in.

Dani examines the garment, exploring their options for creating something new out of something old.

Some garments speak to me and tell me “I’ve always wanted to twirl on the dance floor on the body of a ballroom dancer.” Others are more introverted and ask me to discover their identities. I’ve learned—over and over—things are rarely as they seem. There’s a greater purpose than the eye can perceive, they are greater than what they are seen as.

Dani clicks the fabric into the machine which after just a few inches catches, knotting up the fabric, Dani pulls out the mess of thread and begins again with the seam-ripper, confident, calm.

I grew up sensing that in myself, came to know it in myself and later in fabric and thread. I’ve learned to sense it in other people, too… but not you. I never could. I still can’t.

Struggling with the seam, the seam-ripper slips and jabs Dani in the finger, they curse, it’s painful but they are used to it, Dani sucks their finger, puts the garment in their lap, lights a cigarette. [The ghost of?] their mother sits behind them at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette, watching.

Dani clicks the garment into place on the sewing machine, taking a drag from her cigarette.

Dani lays the cigarette in the ashtray and begins to sew. The sewing machine chomps at the fabric, this time with no hiccups, the sewing machine glides at the whim of Dani’s fingertips, obeying, for the time being.

I remember when I was five or six, watching you get ready to go out. You were a stunning, radiant woman. I remember the way your pearls sparkled with a magic iridescence that matched a gleam in your eye—like shoes to the perfect purse, or scarf. You had a secret energy about you. I wanted to be like you.

I don’t want to be like you anymore. I just want to know you, who you are, who you were, who you wanted to be.

I realized later that gleam was a deflection you used to distract people from what was inside of you—a hard, empty world you lived in. You didn’t want the light to get in, you didn’t want to be seen. You wanted to be invisible. You wanted disappear. And now it seems you have.

Dani finishes a stitch, gets up from the sewing machine and goes to the fridge without looking at their mother.

They retrieve two beers, put one down in front of their mother and crack it open. Dani sits across from their mother at the table, cracks open their beer and sips.


Setting: An apartment building of mostly long-term residents with one or two high-turnover apartments, studios to two-bedrooms.

Dani’s Studio.

Decoration: thrifted elegance with a touch of kitsch, outdated appliances, bare essential furniture, a sewing machine/station against the wall opposite the refrigerator and kitchenette, between the two, a retro kitchen table with four chairs.

Dani has just received word their mother is dead and goes to their sewing machine to continue creating/mending/refurbishing a garment.

More information: http://www.klmxyz.com/

Steps 2, 3, 5 & 8, from 12, by M. Keala Miles, Jr.


Come to believe that only a power greater than ourselves will restore us to sanity


ADDICT. So we had this county fair when I was really young. I didn’t even really like the rides. I liked to play the games. I like to try to win prizes. It’s a thrill, you know, to try to WIN something.

ECHOES: win…win…win…win…win

ADDICT: I like to WIN. No, I LOVE to WIN.

My favorite game was the basket toss. You have to put the right amount of backspin and throw the softball at just the right arc to get it to stay in the basket. I figured it out pretty quick. I got so many oversized stuffed animals from that game.

My dad started to go crazy because I had too many bags of prizes stacked up in the garage.
He said I had to choose which ones I wanted to keep. I couldn’t do it; so he picked three bags at random and gave the rest to charity.

I cried for nine days.

When I got older, I finally started to go on the rides.

And I was terrified at first: Roller coasters look so dangerous.

And then you get off the ride and you feel like, it almost feels like you won the prize. Like “I conquered this huge metal monster!” I…fucking WIN!

THAT stuck with me.

That thrill, for WINNING.

As you get older you keep finding ways to win. It’s a continuous discovery. You take risks every day and you win every day. What will get me downtown faster? The trolley or a cab? Should I eat Thai or Italian? Can I push for one more mile on this run? Do I negotiate a promotion?

Some risks, some WINs are bigger than others.

When I was 25, my boyfriend took me to Vegas. It was my first time…it would definitely not be my last.

Fucking roulette. I fucking love roulette. Just that tick…tick…tick…tick………tick………tick…

It’s like a song you don’t want to end.

Then it’s over.

Just like that.

I close my eyes and hear that tick…tick…tick…tick…tick. Tick. Tick. Over and over. The reward is never worth the risk. How much money have I thrown down at that table? Year after year.

I still need that thrill. I just wish it would last longer. I just wish I knew how to make that feeling last forever.

But that feeling can’t last forever, right? But I don’t know how to walk away.

That’s why I am here.



Make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood THEM.


When my dad died I was 13, and my mom suddenly became this completely different person. She seemed to have even more life…

It’s crazy. When you’re a kid, you don’t really understand that your parents had a life before you were born. Like you just feel like you are the center of their universe, you know; I mean, you ARE the center of the universe.
But I didn’t have a dad, anymore. I felt like I was going crazy. And I was like, where’s my MOM? Why isn’t she here? And it was almost like he lost his life and she found it and was making sure to suck out every last moment of joy from whatever he left behind.

And I blamed her for sucking the life out of him and I blamed her for letting him beat the shit out of me and I blamed her for turning her back on me and then in the middle of a cocaine weekend I found myself on my knees in a gas station bathroom sucking some stranger’s cock for blow…

I mean, I guess that’s what they call a moment of clarity?

He looked down at me and said, “You don’t have to do this.”

I got up off the floor. He put his pants back on, gave me enough for a couple bumps and he left, quietly.

I just stood there in a row of sinks and mirrors.

And I’d like to say that was the last time, but it wasn’t.

I can’t trust myself. So I came here looking for trust. For faith in something other than myself.

You tell me I have to trust God. Fuck God.

God took my dad before I was even old enough to understand how important having a dad is. God is the one that put me in that room with my first rail. God’s the one that let him touch me.

I deserve better. (ECHO repeats)

I deserve a God that cares. (ECHO repeats)

I deserve to be happy. (ECHO repeats)



Admission to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.


Everything means something.

The box of Christmas cards and photos from your childhood.

I still have every report card from Kindergarten through 12th grade. All of my awards and ribbons and trophies.

They are all important.

The pen your boyfriend used to write you that note…

The note…?

I can’t FIND it!!!

The piece of pipe that burst during the blizzard of ’98; you had to replace it—with your uncle…who you never see, but happened to be stuck in town that week because of the storm.

It’s funny, sometimes how things work out.

The bag of stuffed animals you kept because they are all plush toys you got from family vacations to Disneyland. Eight years-worth of plushies. My favorite was Donald Duck. I know a lot of people probably like Mickey or Goofy better, but I was always a Donald Duck fan.

I always thought it was kind of weird that Huey, Dewey, and Louie had an Uncle Donald and an Uncle Scrooge but not mom or dad. What happened to their parents?

It always bothered me that nobody ever talks about their parents.

It also bothered me that none of them wore pants. Mickey wears pants. Goofy wears pants. Jiminy Fucking Cricket wears pants.

Is it cuz they’re ducks? But we never see them in the water!!!

Anyway, I had Donald and his three nephews and I got a new one every time we would go to Disneyland. But I also have Roger Rabbit and Dumbo and Mickey and Minnie both.

Some people, they don’t understand. They don’t understand how much everything means. Each thing. Each. Little. Thing.

Everything means something.

It must be in that box…where is that box?

And, I don’t know, its strange, to me, I guess, that here I am, in here, and they don’t understand; like, they don’t see, you know, like they don’t treasure things. Little things.

The way I do.

And I guess what I’m having the most trouble with is that I really don’t understand why it is considered unhealthy to think this way?

To treasure all the little things. And want to remember all the little things.

This was my mother’s wedding ring.

This is all I have of her.

Now that she’s gone. I feel abandoned.

I feel empty.

When I’m not collecting, I feel empty.

So I go out every day to find more things to collect. It doesn’t matter what they are.

But it should matter, because one day I came home and, I couldn’t even open the door. This is out of control.

I just want to come home. But I don’t know how. And I need help.



Made a list of all persons we have harmed and became willing to make amends.


The hoarder returns. It has been at least three months since we last saw them.

It started with little things. Little things that had a story to tell. And it felt good to be a part of those stories. It was usually things that people left behind. I rescued them: discarded, forgotten things. Fuck that; I helped those stories along. I contributed.

I love that I got to be a part of history.

And now that is what they are: discarded and forgotten. History.

They are all gone.

But I guess when you live like this—with these kinds of things engulfing your life—it is easy to overlook how easy it could be to see it all go up in flames.

Because that’s what they did.

Two weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night and my house was on fire. Like, at first, I thought maybe I was dreaming.   And then I could feel it, but it still felt like a dream too; you know how when you are half asleep and you hear a song or you smell something cooking and it gets incorporated into your dream?

It was like that…but then, eventually I realize that in my dream it smelled like something was burning. And I woke up to find the fire had made its way to my bedroom door. When I realized what was happening I quickly jumped out the window and I broke my ankle.

As I sat in the yard, wrapped in the quilt my grandmother crocheted when I was born, I realized that all those little things were gonna burn in that house. They were gonna burn and I couldn’t do anything about it.

When the smoke cleared and we start to go through the rubble it suddenly dawns on me that I almost gave my life for this disease. It turns out that I had left a stack of old newspapers and magazines next to a space heater in one of the bedrooms. I don’t remember even having a space heater; it certainly wasn’t on! But apparently it shorted out and that sparked enough of a fire.

By the time the fire department came the entire back bedroom was completely destroyed and it had made its way to my room. That’s where the firefighters stopped it; most of my bedroom was destroyed too. The bed didn’t melt down completely but it is definitely beyond salvage. They managed to spare half of the closet and the nightstand by the window.

That’s where I keep my son’s fetal death certificate. Somehow that tiny corner of the room was spared.

And I don’t know how to deal with that.

Context: SYNOPSIS: The title is taken from the common 12-step addiction recovery program philosophy, with each of the 12 scenes representing one of the steps. There are 6 addicts (to be played by 3 actors of any gender, race, or adult age), though there are more than 6 characters.

The “Echo” references are “chorus” parts during the prologue and intermission in which the three players embody the voices of temptation. You may ignore them, of course, for the purposes of a monologue.

 “12” received its world premiere at the 2015 San Diego International Fringe Festival. The three players were: James P. Darvas, Devi Noel, and Rhiannon McAfee. It was directed by Mark Stephan; presented at the 10th Ave Arts Center, Forum Theatre.

More information: Please refer all questions or requests for the full play to: mkealamillesjr@gmail.com

Roland/Laureline, from Cercle Hermaphroditos, by Shualee Cook

Roland/Laureline: Tell me something first.  Before tonight, did you know there were others like Ambrose? Then, so far as you knew, he was a complete anomaly. And back when you supported him, you quickly found out you were alone too? I spent most of my youth that way. Only child. Only one I knew who couldn’t take their body for an answer. I did my best to hide that difference. Tried for a while to fight it. But then I discovered that it gave me special powers. My tongue could explain men and women to one another in a way each understood. My eyes could detect an invisible burden on someone’s back, or a secret in their heart. And most importantly, my face was etched with an openness to outcasts that only they could see. People felt safe in my presence. Would reveal themselves to me. Tell me things they’d never whispered to another soul. It’s then I saw that Loneliness, this monster hovering over my whole life, was a horrible liar. There is no such thing as aloneness. Only isolation caused by fear. There will always be someone who feels on the outside too, and understands. The trick is to find them. So that became my mission. I made connections, quiet introductions, weaving misfits together into one great colorful tapestry. You wanted to listen to who I am? Well, here it is, far more precise than man or woman or androgyne.  I am a knight in the war against Loneliness. Wherever I find it, I push back and make a family. I am a recruiter in the campaign for the meek to inherit the earth. I am a warrior of the unity of God. What is or isn’t beneath my skirts will always be secondary to that.  So you’re welcome here, Bertram. And free to be whatever version of yourself you wish.

Context: Cercle Hermaphroditos tells the story of a real-life social club for gender misfits in New York City in 1895. Roland/Laureline, the founder of the club confides to Bertram, who has just discovered that the gender-bending games he used to play with his younger sibling Violet/Ambrose were more serious than he thought, and is trying to understand this new world he finds himself in.

More information: https://shualeecook.com/

Quinn, by Asher Wyndham

QUINN (non-binary, gender-fluid, trans) Yeah, it’s me, I’m back. Hellooo. I’m not waiting anymore in my car. I’ve eaten I don’t know how many tangerines. Let me see my grandpa. Please. It’s been almost an hour and I know he doesn’t take this long to get ready in the morning. Have you sponge-bathed him? Is he dressed in his purple suit?  Is he ready or not?! Why are you giving me the silent treatment, pretending that you’re on the phone… Today is our day, you know that. It’s the one day of the month he gets to see the sailboats and eat a BBQ-pork sandwich. He’s leaving with me in five minutes, and I don’t care if his dentures are yucky. Can you buzz me in? Stop buffin’ with that emery board and press that button. Ahh! It’s like Fort Knox here! Why, why are you looking at me like that? “Like whatttt?” If I had a mirror… Yeah, I got an attitude. You and everyone here at this Senior Citizen Home, you’re..not pleasant. No, you’re– I’m biting my tongue. *My pierced tongue.
(Sticks out pierced tongue.)
Let me through. When I need to see my grandpa, you shouldn’t make something up, like, “He’s not ready.” I know what you’re up to. And I’m not being paranoid. Look, it’s me, his grandkid. Yeah, yeah, I’m a bit different from the last time you saw me. Got some color. But I’m still his grandkid. He’s seen me like this before. My mother showed him photos on his phone. He’s from another generation, but he can handle it, unlike some people… For a Christian place, you lack hospitality! Ask yourself this, would Jesus buzz that buzzer? He would. He would get off that cross right above you, and he’d carry me like a baby to my grandpa’s room. Ahh! I’m helping my mom pay for his residence! So buzz the fuckin’ buzzer! Nowww!
*If the actor doesn’t have a pierced tongue then remove this line.
Context: This monologue was written for this website. Let me know when you use this for audition by emailing me at asherwyndham@yahoo.com. Thanks!


Pete, from Sensitive Guys, by MJ Kaufman

PETE. (gender non-conforming) I’m from wheat fields. Cattails. Rows and rows of trees. Long bus rides into the night. I’m from Dunkin Donuts Coffee Trees that lose all their leaves at once. No one ever said to me, what kind of man do you want to be when you grow up, I mean what kind of a MAN? I thought there was only one kind of man to be. That was my father. Who worked outside with power tools all day and wore plaid shirts. He and my mother would yell angrily and loud at each other and I really thought that was marriage. A symphony of yelling voices. My father would push and push and never let up and I thought that was being a man. A constant pushing. There was no one coming around to kindergartens saying this is how to be a sensitive man, someone who doesn’t push, who is not afraid to lose at a game or be small.  No one ever said that.No one. Ever. Except for you guys. Guys. Except for you guys. Oh man how I love you guys.  And Jordan, man. It was mostly Jordan who said it. Who said- what was it that you said that first day, man? Oh yeah. It was like it’s okay to be small. Like we are so small. And I’m still getting into that.  Really understanding that. Especially when I’m in a room with girls. Women, I mean. Women. When I’m in a room with women. I wanna impress them. I get like one of those birds with my feathers all puffed up. Those peacock-type guys? Yeah. I wanna show off all my colors. And I always make a bastard fool of myself  when I do that.

Context: Will is a freshman at Watson college. Jordan is a senior film major. Tyler is writing a novel for his thesis. They are all members of the Men’s Peer Education group. At meetings they spend hours unpacking questions like: “what is male privilege? And what can we do about it?” They love each other and the group. Until some accusatory posters start appearing around campus suggesting that a member of the group committed sexual assault. Could it be that even sensitive guys, guys working on their privilege sometimes turn violent or aggressive? In this play women and gender non-conforming people play men trying to understand the intricacies of masculinity and violence.

More information: https://newplayexchange.org/users/179/mj-kaufman


Ariela, from Charm, by Phillip Dawkins

ARIELA (Puerto Rican trans woman) I think it’s really great what you are doing for these kids, being like a role model to them? Mira, I’m 33 years old and I ain’t never had not trans people to look up to. I mean, my mami was accepting of me, and she give me all this freedom and stuff, but like I kinda wished I had somebody giving me boundaries, you know? Then, maybe I would not had had all my surgeries right away. Because like I thought there was only one way to be a woman, you know? And like I wanted to move out and live with my pimp and like–Jesus, if somebody had just told me “no”….So, yeah, I think you can really help these chicas. Like a lot.

Context: Charm depicts the colorful inner workings of an etiquette class taught by Mama Darleena Andrews, an African-American transgender woman, in an LGBTQ organization known as The Center. Despite her students’ daily battles with identity, poverty and prejudice, Mama’s powerful love and unapologetic attitude ultimately help her pupils find a new way to respect each other and to redefine what “having charm” means. Inspired by the true story of Miss Gloria Allen and her work at Center on Halsted, this new play carries a message of dignity and inclusion to all those it touches.

More information: https://newplayexchange.org/plays/52099/charm

Devon, from A Little But Not Normal, by Lillie Franks

DEVON (trans woman) It’s about two things. Two big things, at any rate. The first is acceptance. You probably don’t know what it’s like to be accepted for the first time at the age of 23. You’ve basically been accepted all your life. And, in a way, so was I. At least, something was. What people saw. What I let people see. But that wasn’t me, no matter how much I tried to make it. It was what people wanted me to be. What I wanted to be for them, for a while at least. Then, 23 years later, for the first time, I learned about a new way to understand myself, a way that could finally let me look at people and say ‘‘This is who I am; this is me’’ and actually mean. And you can’t imagine how crushing it was to call up my parents on the phone, the two people that I had always been able to trust, who had always been there for me, to say ‘‘This is who I am; this is me’’, mean it for once in my life and hear ‘‘No it’s not.’’ That was part of it.

The second is harder. I know you wish it were something you had said or done. Sometimes I wish it were too. But it’s not. Not quite.


DEVON (trans woman) Imagine you walk into a room and it’s full of people. Every once and awhile, someone screams at you. And that’s unpleasant, and it’s unpleasant to wait for it, but also, constantly, everyone in the room is whispering over and over in a hundred different ways that you don’t belong. And if you point to any one of them it’s just a whisper, but with everyone whispering it turns into a roar. And every time you want to make yourself heard, you have to shout over the roar of not belonging. It wasn’t one thing. It was a thousand little things that added up. And I couldn’t tell you what any of them were because all of them were so small. But also, I couldn’t keep shouting. No matter how much I loved you, I couldn’t shout then. And I can’t shout now.

I’m not interested in trying to fix our relationship. I’m happy where I am. I’ve established myself and my place, and I don’t want to deal with my past anymore. You’re welcome to stay for however long you planned to visit. But once you leave, I’m not interested in seeing or hearing from you again.

More information: http://dcmetrotheaterarts.com/2015/11/20/a-little-bit-not-normal-at-cohesion-theatre-company/