Play Script | Fleabag

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 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. fleabag play script

This piece captures the play’s essential loneliness, its scab-picking humor, and the raw address to the audience as both confessor and voyeur. So that’s where we are

You’re still here. Why are you still here? I know you’re supposed to say that quietly,

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 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.”

Cracker