Fleabag Play Script __full__ Access

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. 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.

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. fleabag play script

Cracker

Oh right. You paid for a ticket.

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.

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.” This piece captures the play’s essential loneliness, its

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.