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.

You’re still here. Why are you still here?

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…

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.

So. The guinea pig died. Not a metaphor. An actual guinea pig. My friend’s. Well, she’s not my friend now, obviously. I was housesitting. I was supposed to water the fern and not kill the rodent. I did one of those things. Guess which.

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.”

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.

Fleabag Play Script =link= Online

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.

You’re still here. Why are you still here? fleabag play script

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

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. My dad has that look

So. The guinea pig died. Not a metaphor. An actual guinea pig. My friend’s. Well, she’s not my friend now, obviously. I was housesitting. I was supposed to water the fern and not kill the rodent. I did one of those things. Guess which.

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.”

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.