(He sighs deeply, resting his chin as much as the wooden board allows.)
But I’m trying to change! I’m a new Tandy. I’m the reformed Tandy. I agreed to five weeks in this dog house instead of one! That’s how committed I am to showing them that the old, lying, ball-pool-diving Phil Miller is dead and buried. I just want to sit at the table again. I want to share a block of government-issue apocalypse cheese without feeling like I need to lie about who ate the last slice. The_last_man_on_earth_2x04
(He looks off to the side, his eyes suddenly catching a flick of light. He blinks, focusing.) (He sighs deeply, resting his chin as much
Citronella spray and electricity. A true sensory experience. Who needs five-star spas when you can have high-voltage shock therapy on a beach in Malibu? It's all about trust, guys! I get it! I really, truly do. (He looks up at the stars, his voice softening.) I agreed to five weeks in this dog house instead of one
Below is an original, creative dramatic monologue written from Tandy's perspective during his long, isolated night in the stockade before the fire breaks out. The Monologue: "C to the T"
Do you think they can hear me? New Phil. Melissa. Todd. Todd used to be my best friend. Now he looks at me like I’m a piece of expired cheese. And honestly, I don't blame him. I was a jerk. A Grade-A, certified, grass-fed turkey jerk.
It’s just... it's lonely out here. The world ended. Practically everyone we ever knew or loved was wiped out by a virus. And here we are, the last handful of human beings left on the giant blue marble, and I am locked in a box. We have all the space in the world, and I have about three square feet.