Okay, Hamlet. You’ve been pretty greedy. Just because your father’s vengeful ghost appeared to you and made you swear to kill your murderous uncle doesn’t mean that you’re the only person on Earth with feelings. Sometimes other people need to angstily soliloquize around the rotten state of Denmark, too.
So I’ve compiled some of my favorite soliloquizing tips and tricks for you all; the next time you feel like getting existential all by your lonesome, you’ll know what to do.
1. Set the mood. I live in a tiny dorm room with highly sensitive fire alarms, so real candles are out of the picture. However, technology is fun and accessible. All you have to do is watch the following video. It’s 60 minutes of floating candles in the rain.
Optional extra step: If you’re a yuppie or a college undergrad, you can make your life a lot better by downloading the flux app for your MacBook and setting your computer’s glow to “candle,” because it’s 2013.
2. Look the part. If you aren’t wearing the right trappings and suits for your woe, how will people know not to take you seriously? My ideal soliloquy look is definitely Severus Snape meets Taylor Momsen, but feel free to express yourself. It’s a free country. And while you’re at it, take a couple of agonized selfies.
#TOLBO: thou only livest but once.
3. Pick your topic. I just finished finals, so the only thing I really have to complain about right now is the Summer Television Agony Coma™ (STAC). It’s like, I want to go out into the world and be active, ride a bike, have my hair braided by birds, and become Jennifer Lawrence once and for all, but I’m also incapable of doing anything but lying in the fetal position for 10 straight hours, eating Cheez-its, and crying about Tim Riggins? That’s really stressful.
4. Find a morbid prop. The most morbid thing I own at the moment is actually just a worn-in copy of Hamlet. If you’ve got a human skull on hand, uh…why? But also, use that. Alas, poor Yorick. He probably had it coming.
5. Wax poetic. Just go for it, bro. (And don’t forget about iambic pentameter.)
Oh, what a sad and lazy slave am I!
Is it not monstrous that this young adult,
Entrapped by fiction, by some fake adventure,
Could force her soul so to her own conceit,
That for fake people all her visage wanned,
Tears in her eyes, distraction in her aspect,
A broken heart, and her whole function sitting,
Trapped by the TV — and all for nothing!
For TIM RIGGINS!
What’s Tim Riggins to me? Or me to Tim Riggins,
That I should weep for him? His flowing hair,
The way he threw that football to that kid.
Who AM I? I would flood my room with tears
And talk off my acquaintances’ ears,
Make mad my mother and appall my friends,
Confound the internet, and amaze indeed
The very writers who made Riggins up.