Well at that time I was a woman whose husband was a merchant shipper. We made fortunes and lost them. By the sixth year of our marriage we lost all of it through his poor decisions. Then he drank himself to death and left me out in the cold.

Men. The bars, I lived in them. I would stand on a table and rail at the world. I would go for hours exposing my breasts my emotions and my soul in the words of the English language to these ignorant bastards.

For the price of a pint of ale I would take on the man. There came in one night a man not common, Shakespeare, whose two friends had dragged him in. He sat right in front of the table (at ringside) not being the wiser since I often vomited on those that sat there. When I first started my tirade of the night I noticed him sitting with his mouth open. For hours it was open. He did not know the tradition, that temperate bastard so he didn't buy me. Others did and when I finished that night I was pretty drunk but not too proper I guess. As I stood there swaying the three talked among themselves and then threw my dress over my head and kidnapped me. I awoke in a clean room for the first time in years and I had warm food and after a few weeks my teeth stopped falling out and my thinking stilled.

Then they gave me a pen and quill with some parchment (I had learned to write when I was a child) and a few drops of ink. After a week the doctors talked together and decided I would not poison myself so they gave me a bottle of ink, half filled since they were not taking any chances.

If I wrote two really good pages I got a small glass of wine. For months I sat there and put my anger, hatred and frustrations on the parchment until I finally ran dry of my emotions inside.

Why do you think there is not one man in all of Shakespeare's works that you would want to get to know? Even Romeo is classless and only one tenth as clever as the girl he seduced and then oppresses and then wastes that precious resource that she has inside of her. He eventually shows us that he is not just selfish but that he is just a spineless fucking idiot when he kills himself!

Also, all the women are nice or reminded me of my stepmother. And you thought William Shakespeare wrote it all for you, you, you!

Dearie, it's written in the women's language. Emotions dear. Men don't know how to write it, they hardly can under fucking stand it. It's not written in a man's language or it would have some logic to it. Running a theater involves nothing but logic. To go immediately from that logic to understanding an insane prince in the same day and then back day after day would have eventually cost dear William Shakespeare the theater and that he did not deserve to lose. William was a kind and dignified man who never shoved his way through a crowd, never mind fucking on a floor for a pint of ale.

It's just Shakespeare. Why is it people take me so seriously? It's fiction...mainly. It's to be read while standing on top of a table at a poetry slam. And what good is it now?


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