So that’s where we are. I’ve got a freezer with less guilt in it, a spatula with dirt under the rim, and a face that looks like it’s just seen its own ghost.
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. fleabag play script
Cracker
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.” So that’s where we are
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. I wrote “sorry” on the lid in eyeliner
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.
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…
