Fleabag Play Script: __full__

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.

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.” fleabag play script

That’s the thing about death, isn’t it? It’s the admin. The voicemail you have to delete. The jumper you can’t throw away because it still smells of their neck. The freezer full of frozen rodents you’re too much of a coward to bury. I miss my best friend

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. To you