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.”
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.
You’re still here. Why are you still here? fleabag play script
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.
I put it in a shoebox. I wrote “sorry” on the lid in eyeliner. Then I put the shoebox in the freezer. Because I didn’t know what else to do. You can’t just… bin a guinea pig. They’re too furry. Too present . Even when they’re not. I slept with a guy last week who
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.
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 decided a lot of things are compliments
Welcome to the mess. It’s got central heating and a broken lock. Please, take a seat. There’s wine in the glass if you want it. Or don’t. I won’t be offended. I’ll just assume you’re dead.
