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The Streets, A Serenade

Romeo died for Juliet. The most I've done for any of the girls I've dated is pay for a meal at a medium to high end restaurant. Though the comparison may seem a little imbalanced, it should be noted that Romeo never had to work part time just to scrape enough money together to pay for weekly and ultimately pointless excursions to shopping malls only for Juliet to tell him to be more like Mercutio. The essence, however, is the same.

For centuries, men have been accused of not caring enough, of forgetting important dates, and of being commitment-phobes. It all started when Adam gave up a rib for Eve only to immediately regret it once she started nagging him about how much of a mess Eden was. Apparently, we were just never that great at relationships. Then, suddenly, along comes this play which puts into words feelings that we men have always wanted/never had the courage to say. Romeo symbolised the "in love" type of love for us. The proper love; the taste of toxic perfume that poisons our hearts and makes us do crazy things like suicide and drunk texting an ex at 4am tot tell them that we still love them Romeo was us; he was the man we always found it hard to show ourselves to be. Some guy just desperately, hopelessly in love.

The first time I read the script for this play, all I could hear was me, in my head, agreeing with Romeo. The truth is, I would die for the one I love, and I'm sure any man who has been in love would do the same. The only thing stopping us is the fact that it's wholly impractical and that we wouldn't be of much use to our loved ones as a lifeless corpse.

I forget anniversaries, Romeo forgets to check Juliet's pulse. We're all the same really. 


Deadline day article written to promote Romeo and Juliet, an upcoming play I'll be acting in. And no, I won't be playing Juliet. I'm as disappointed as you are.


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