If she were here, she’d tell me to stop talking to the audience. She’d say it’s “theatrically indulgent” and “borderline unhinged.” And she’d be right. She was always right. That’s why I loved her. That’s why I…
That look. I know that look. It’s the “oh, you’re still doing this” look. My dad has that look. He wears it like a cravat. fleabag play script
I slept with a guy last week who said I laughed like a fire alarm. I didn’t know if that was a compliment. I decided it was. I decided a lot of things are compliments if you tilt your head and squint. Like being called “a lot.” Or “exhausting.” Or “the reason I’m late for my own therapy.” If she were here, she’d tell me to
My mother used to say I had “difficult hands.” Not ugly. Difficult . Like they were always reaching for something they shouldn’t. A hot stove. A married man. The last biscuit. That’s why I loved her
I miss my best friend. I know you’re supposed to say that quietly, into a pillow, with a glass of white wine and a Joni Mitchell record. But I’m saying it here. To you. With red wine and no record. Because the needle’s broken. Because I broke it. Because I break things. Not on purpose. That’s the worst part. I break them with love.
Anyway. The guinea pig. I finally took it to the park at 2 a.m. Dug a hole with a spatula. Said a few words. “You were small. You were furry. You didn’t deserve my incompetence.” Then I went home and masturbated to a video of a man building a log cabin. Don’t ask.