Poor Guy

Cover Image

Man enters. Stops. Looks up. Speaks.

So the thing is, is that it’s not you. It’s me. No, look at me. Ignore them. It really isn’t you. Honest. It is me. It’s not a cliché. It’s not. It’s just something I have to deal with. On my own. It’s something I have to work out. But I have to work it out without you. I just need time to figure out what it is that I want from this. From us. What is this? And, and where is it going? Where are we going? I need to work this out for me. For my own sanity. And when I do, then we can figure out something that works for the both of us. We will. But I promise. We will. Don’t cry. You are. Here. Use this. Look at me. Look. Maybe there is a future for us. Where we can… co-exist. Maybe there is. But right now. Right now. I just need to be alone. (BEAT) Bitch. You know, I never remember it word for word but it went something like that. “It’s not you, it’s me.” Seriously? It’s not me? Fantastic. Wonderful. You are ruining my life. You have ripped my heart out of my aching chest and smashed it on the floor. But as long as it’s not my fault. Every cloud, eh? At least I know I’m not the issue in this relationship. At least now I can sleep at night, safe in the knowledge I’m not a burden to you. Thanks. Look, I know I’ve not been the best boyfriend ever. I get that. I understand that I’ve got faults. Faults. Not ‘issues’, thank you very much. So what if I like to mix ketchup with curry sauce? That makes it less spicy. I don’t even like spicy food but that is the sort of sacrifice I’d do for you. Or, or so what if I like to wear ladies socks? They fit me better. And they are really soft. My feet are tender. You know that. And what is so wrong about farting under the covers and forcing you to smell it? I have to smell all of your bloody perfumes, don’t I? And I pick my toenails in my sleep for you. It means my feet look nicer. And I almost always remember to clean out of the bed. And when I shave my body hair, it is not to make myself look like a fourteen year old boy. It is because it was itchy and I don’t like going to the toilet and finding a grey pube, alright? I thought it was cancer… Breathe. Breathe. (long pause) Just because I live with Mummy is not any reason for your concern, thank you very much. (mocking) “Move out. You’re too old. It’s weird. It’s… ‘creepy-weepy’.” You know bloody well I can’t afford to pay rent. Nose jobs are really expensive. But that’s just the sacrifices I am making for you. For our relationship. For us. Oh, and at least I am trying to improve in the bedroom department. You think you’re an expert. Little Miss Sex-in-an-alleyway. Yeah, I heard about that. Why do you think I deleted my brother off my Facebook? You know what’s worse? You’re not even as good as you think you are. In fact, you’ve got worse. Sloppy. That’s what you are. Plain sloppy. All hands here and tongue there. It’s not a bloody ice cream. I’ve tried to improve for you. I read those books Daddy got me and, and, and I researched a lot of videos. I almost lasted the whole of the break in Coronation Street. Remember that? Remember how much fun that was? What does that tell you? Improvement. Trying. For us. Us. Yet when I ask you to do the tiniest thing for me, “No, that’s ‘creepy-weepy’.” Strap-ons are not creepy. You’re lucky Mummy kept the receipt. She had to get those points taken off her loyalty card. Mummy was so upset that night. She wasn’t even in the mood to play strip poker or anything. Ruined our Saturday night, you did. Ruined it (laughs) You know what? Daddy always said you were no good. He knew. He knew the like of you before you even set foot in our house. He always said “Son, she is way out of your league.” Yeah, you were well out of my league. I’m like top of the top league and you are the bottom of the worst league imaginable. That’s you. Down there. On the ground. On the floor. That’s you. In a strange way I’m glad you dumped me. Saved me having to do the same to you. Because I was going to. I was. I was. So what if it was our anniversary? Who cares? Do I care? Do I look like I care? Is this a face that cares whether his girlfriend breaks up with him in a restaurant full of people? (mocking) “Oh, no. People are looking. People are laughing. That waiter is recording this on his phone.” (BEAT) I was not crying. I had a very hot soup and it was playing havoc with my lenses. You know I’ve had problems with my lenses. (starts to well up) Bloody lenses. (wipes his face) I know I’ve got faults. I can admit when I have faults. “It’s not you, it’s me.” At least I know it’s not all my doing, eh? (smirks) And there you were thinking I wouldn’t take it well. How wrong you were. Bitch.



Created: Jul 20, 2012

Tags: script

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