1st Hayden Santiago Recording

Monologue:
“My name is Hayden Santiago—” I begin, but the stupid bitch sitting in the passenger seat interrupts me. “Shut the fuck up, bitch!” And I continue to shout into the recorder, “My name is Hayden Santiago—” And I’m interrupted yet again by her senseless screams. “I said shut the fuck up! If you don’t, I’ll stab a hole in your throat and fuck your voice box!” I’m not sure if that’s possible, but apparently she does because she doesn’t speak a word after that. And I persist, “That is who I am, but not what I am. My desire to burn and destroy, rape and pillage anything beautiful is rooted so deep that I no longer see the world as abject, ugly, but rather measure everything along a spectrum—a wavelength of beauty. I am not something tangible—flesh, blood, muscles, tissue, matter. Though I try, I cannot define myself using generic labels—father, son, brother, artist, prophet, martyr. I am not the protagonist. I am not the hero. So what am I? I am defective. I am pure, unfiltered emotion. I am total, unabridged control. I am a wicked, wicked orgasm. I am the germs of every human quality. I am the screams between satin sheets that pervade even the thickest of air. I am the desire that festers beneath your gossamer tissue. I am the fire that burns in that hollow mosque you call a soul. I am the cancer that invades the very hub of your existence. I am the very definition of Western decadence. I am the yoke that weighs down your shoulders, carrying buckets of life—life— pain and despair. I am the blood that artistically drips from your wanting, lonely wrists with such malicious intent. I am shade without color. I am salvation without hope. I am death without life. I am pain without purpose. I am here. I am now. I am you. Consider this…dying.”