The Daughter: Pathetic. What is wrong with this girl? She seems smart enough, why doesn't she wake up, get a fucking life and stop acting so weird? So her leg's a little gimpy, so what! And what is the deal with all the glass statues already? If it was all set 50 years later she probably would have collected smurfs instead. Would anyone have made such a big deal over a play called A Shitload of Smurfs? Probably not! Yet as you can see, the psychological significances are roughly equivalent. Context, as always, is all.
The Mother: This batty old broad needs to drop the vibrant faded ditz routine and get down to brass tacks, already. Get your house in order, Amanda! I'm not talking about the damn chintz. You've got a shut-in emotional case daughter who likes to play in the dark with her glass smurf collection as a substitute for human contact, and a borderline sociopath son, derelict of responsibility, living in a complete fantasyworld wherein he has something big and important to say to literature - despite the fact he can't put it in words. And what the heck is with that dress? I don't care what the stage directions say, it looks like crap. And it doesn't flatter your figure too well either, which I know for you was the whole point. Lose it.
The Son: Get your head in the game, jackass. We've all got some kind of situation to deal with, and maybe we all hate it. So? Come to situations, how in hell does mooning about like the last of the lost european idealists help yours? Yeah, maybe you're out of there already - already escaped in mind and heart, in all but fact - but, crap. While you're working up your sense of balls to cold-ditch your dependent blood relations and seek your epic horizons elsewhere, it'd go a whole lot easier on you in the meantime if you'd try to be a bit less of a fuckup on the day-to-day. Who knows, on the miracle you actually do make something of yourself, a little practice in the area of not fucking up daily might come in handy. Imagine having some kind of reputation or responsibilities to manage? Might be a good idea, to have some familiarity with another mode of flow besides letting everything slide slowly to hell! And chew your damn food already, that's disgusting.
The Gentleman Caller: Ah, hell. He seems like a nice enough guy. It's not his fault, this family of whack jobs all projecting their non-overlapping emotionally vulnerable fantasies onto him. If I was him, I'd get the fuck out of dodge and not look back!
The Father: Can't say as I blame him, either.
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