A Post Beak-Up Guide Book
Note: The piece is essentially a monologue from the lead character Laura, interspersed with odd lines from a chorus of female friends and ex boyfriends and as such should be performed in a heightened, non-realistic style. The amount of interaction between Laura and the chorus is down to director’s discretion. While Laura should be fairly naturalistic, the chorus can portray their various characters as very over the top, stereotypical character. Rather than being played in an angsty way, performance should try and be light-hearted and humorous.
Lights come up on a woman sitting on the front of the stage, on the phone.
Laura: Yea? Well FUCK YOU THEN!
She throws the phone, which smashes on the side of the stage.
Laura: Shit. Shit. Fucking...shit. 1 year, 4 months and 6 days. That’s how long we’d been together. 1 year, 4 months and 6 days of laughter, love and glorious sex. 1 year, 4 moths and 6 days reduced to nothing in a 13 minute phone call. It doesn’t seem to make sense that such a huge part of your life can fall away in less than a quarter of an hour. I feel like there should have been something monumental to mark the change, like an explosion or a rainstorm or a string quartet. Anything other than a ringing phone you don’t want to answer and a few badly worded clichés.
Why do people never just tell you the truth? They leave because they don’t enjoy being with you anymore. I wish he’d they’d ust be brutal and say it. It’s bad enough he’s leaving you, do you really need the pity as well?
A Man enters and stops centrestage, he speaks and acts as an exaggerated romantic hero.
Man: It’s just the wrong place and the wrong time.
Laura: Romeo and Juliet were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were torn about by ancient rivalries in a patriarchal city in which a strong and socially acceptable marriage was the best way to ensure a safe future. Lancelot and Guinevere were in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was already married to the king when they met. Those two guys from Brokeback Mountain were in the wrong place at the wrong time, because in America in the 50s, people were not so keen on the whole gay thing. We were in Birmingham in 2012. Hardly star-crossed was it?
Man: I’ll always love you, just not in that way.
Laura: I have two major problems with this one. The first is pretty obvious. If you’ll always love me, why exactly are you breaking up with me? That seems a little counter-productive. Secondly, in what way exactly will you always love me? Because with the whole sleeping with other people thing, it seems like the way in which you’ll always love me is, not loving me. It also selfishly makes me feel obliged to say I’ll always love you, when in fact I think you’re a massive prick. Which leads me onto my all time favourite.
Man: It’s not you, it’s me.
Laura: Well yes. You are the liar. You are the cheater. Any unbiased eye on the situation would see me as the wronged party. But the self doubt seeps in, so instead of looking him in the eye and saying...
Woman 1 appears onstage
Woman 1: Yea, it is you. And I hope your penis develops a nasty case of gangrene and drops off, you lying cheating piece of shit.
Laura: You stay silent, and keep asking yourself
Woman 2 appears on the other side of the stage.
Woman 2: If it’s all his fault, why is it me who’s getting dumped?
Laura: And suddenly everyone’s always trying to give you advice, based on how shit your ex is, always has been, and always will be. It makes you wonder why none of them pointed this out before he left you.
Women 1 and 2 move more central to join Man. They now interact with one another, murmuring and offering encouragement like a group of friends do in these situations. Instead of the swaggering romantic hero from earlier, Man is portrays the gay best friend.
Woman 1: You can do so much better than him, I’ve always thought so.
Man: He’s really quite rude, I’ve always thought so.
Woman 3: And when I slept with him, he wasn’t even very good. Shit...did he not tell you about that?
Laura: Then there’s the onslaught of people telling you how amazing you are.
Woman 1: You are a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and you don’t need a man to get by.
Man: If he can’t see what an amazing person you are, then he doesn’t deserve to be with you.
Woman 3: To be perfectly honest, he’s not that good looking, and he’s a twat. You could do better.
Laura: And you stand there, enjoying everyone being so lovely, but at the back of your head, there’s a little niggley voice that you can’t shut up. It’s there the whole time anyone’s speaking to you, and it’s always saying the exact same thing.
All four actors turn suddenly to look at the audience, and speak in unison.
Laura, Woman 1, Woman 2, Man: If you’re so amazing, why are you the one who got dumped?
Laura: And the little voice keeps getting louder and louder,
Women 1 and 2 and Man repeat the following lines in unison, as Laura continues her monologue over the top.
Woman 1: You are a strong, beautiful, independent woman, and you don’t need a man to get by.
Man: If he can’t see the amazing person you are, then he doesn’t deserve to be with you.
Woman 3: You could do better.
Laura: And you start stressing out about it, because you’re like ‘well, why did he break up with me’ so you go back, and you go over every single little detail, trying to figure out exactly where things started to go wrong , and you try to piece together the whole story of your break up. And suddenly reading Cosmo and listening to empowering female music isn’t enough, and you start getting sad and angry, and you’re angry at yourself because god forbid he’s done anything wrong when he’s so fucking perfect, but if he was so perfect then why did he break up with you, and it must be because you’re not
Woman 1: A strong beautiful woman.
Man: An amazing person.
Woman 3: Could do better.
Laura: Until you finally think enough! Fuck it. I can sit, and I can wallow, and eat ice cream and listen to Adele and eventually balloon to the size of a house and never have sex again and eventually come to own 47 cats and shout at the neighbourhood kids to get off my yard. Or, I can grow some fucking balls, get out my house, and move. The fuck. On.
And so after 1 year, 4 months and 6 days of laughter, love and, if I’m brutally honest, mediocre sex, I find myself newly single and back in the game.
But how exactly do you go about moving on? There are hundreds of different theories about the best way to forget your ex and get on with life, but it’s a pain in the arse trying to figure out which one’s right.
Woman 1: Try a break-over. It’s a make-over, for when you’ve had a break-up! New wardrobe, lose 5 pounds, cut and colour...don’t let yourself look anything like how you looked when you were with him.
Laura: Splurging on a load of stuff I don’t want or need, in order to change my appearance to stop my ex fancying me, when he already broke up with me, because he didn’t fancy me? And besides, I like the way I look.
Man: You know what they say...the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new!
Laura: True, but you know what else they say? The best way to get genital herpes is to get under someone new.
Woman 2: You need to learn to be happy with yourself. Because if you don’t like yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?
Laura: See, this is my issue. All these grand schemes to make me feel better all assume that I must think badly of myself just because some guy didn’t want me in his life anymore. But no. That’s not how I feel at all. I look in the mirror, I like what I see. Sure I have a few wobbly bits and my eyes are a little bit too far apart, but on the whole, I think I look great! And I don’t want to go around fucking anything that moves just to make myself feel like I’m worthy of male affection. So no, I don’t think I need to learn to love myself.
But if I’m ok within myself, and I’m no longer obsessing about my dickhead ex, that only leaves one terrifying option. I’m ready to start dating again.
Now, as someone who hasn’t had to undergo this ordeal for some time, I worry I may have forgotten exactly how it works. It’s a mine field of potential humiliation. You have to sit, opposite someone you hardly know, for an extended period of time, being judged. It’s like a job interview, but with a slightly higher chance of getting laid at the end. Everything takes on this enormous significance. Even clothes.
You chose an outfit, but then you have to worry what it says about you. You’re going for:
Man: I am attractive, successful and independent, but I could make room in my life for a special man, should he play his cards right. He winks.
Laura: But it’s a careful balance, too much and you end up at
Woman 1: I’m incredibly easy. I don’t care if you never call again, let’s do it right here on the restaurant table.
Laura: Too little and it’s
Woman 2: I still live with my mom and I’m saving myself for marriage.
Laura: Or, God forbid, the worst of all. The one thing guaranteed to cause any man to reach for his phone to take an emergency call, which desperately requires him to leave the date and never speak to you again
Woman 1, Woman 2, Man: I’m nearly 30 and I haven’t had a baby yet.
Laura: Neither of which is particularly likely to elicit a second date. Not like a second date is always a priority, some of the men out there. Take for example, the guy who could never possibly love any woman as much as he loves himself
Woman 1: The suit? Armani. The shoes? Italian leather, hand-stitched. I made six figures last year, plus bonuses, and I haven’t listened to a single thing you’ve said all evening, because I’ve been busy admiring my own reflection in the champagne cooler. Now, care to come back to my large studio apartment for a night-cap? And by night-cap, I mean, I’ll allow you the privilege of giving me a blowjob.
Laura: You get the feeling if you just got up and left, he wouldn’t notice. He’d just keep talking about himself. But even Mr-You’re-So-Vain-You-Probably-Think-This-Play-Is-About-You is preferable to
Woman 2: I’m picturing you naked. I’m picturing you...naked. You think I dropped my fork? No, I was trying to see up your skirt. Fuck me, those are good tits. Mmmmm...the things I could do to those...
Laura: Mr No-Those-Are-My-Breasts-My-Face-Is-Six-Inches-Higher is a man you feel the need to show after meeting to get all his sweat off you. Then of course, there’s
Man: Erm...I’m Kevin. I work in HR at a building firm. I play football at the weekend with my mates, I’m not too bad in goal actually, and my perfect weekend involves a walk with my dogs, decent match on the tele and a trip to the pub.
Laura: He seems fine. He’s not a dick, he’s not a sleaze, he’s not socially awkward, he’s not really anything. He’s a nice, normal guy. But who wants to settle for that? You don’t want Mr Nice-but-Average. You’re holding out for Mr Sweep-you-off-your-feet-blow-your-mind-take-your-breath-away. Your ex broke your heart, so how could you let your guard down for anything less? But seeing as at one point, you considered your ex to be Mr Sweep-you-off-your-feet-blow-your-mind-take-your-breath-away, you can’t trust your selection process. You need advice. You need: a girly night in, with good friends, cheap wine, and a whole lot of Facebook stalking.
Facebook. Where we share every detail of our lives with our vast network of friends. The perfect place to get the skinny on a potential gentleman friend.
Well, this one seems nice. Keith.
Man: And look at his profile photo. Fit as fuck!
Woman 1: Yeah, I guess.
Man: Look at him! He’s wearing surf shorts!
Woman 1: I worry he’s too good-looking.
Woman 2: Too good-looking?
Woman 1: Yea, like...you’d have to spend the entire relationship being the worse looking one. You’d never be able to relax during sex. You’d be too busy worrying that your flab might brush against his perfectly chiselled abs, and he’d realise what a terrible mistake he’s made in dating you.
Woman 1: Good point.
Laura: But that’s ridiculous, what if...
Man: No, we’ve decided against him. Next.
Laura: Well there’s this guy. I know him from work...
Woman 2: Never shit where you eat. Always ends badly.
Laura: Well, I guess there’s Rich.
Man: Show us...Ooooh, very nice.
Woman 1: Just the right level of very nice. You’re proud to have pulled him, but he’s not going to make you feel fat.
Woman 2: How’d you meet him?
Laura: He plays football with my brother. We have a few mutual friends, so I don’t think he’s a nut-job, and we like loads of the same stuff. Star Wars,
They murmur in agreement.
Guitar.
More enthusiastic murmuring.
Lady Gaga.
They groan disappointedly.
What?
Woman 1, 2, Man: Gay.
Laura: Just because he likes Lady Gaga? Come on guys.
Woman 1, 2, Man: Gay.
Laura: He could just be really...
Woman 1, 2, Man: Gay?
Laura: Oh, for fuck’s sake!
It’s insane. You know too much, too soon. Everyone had flaws. They like shit music and went through really awkward teenage phases. But you get so engrossed in trying to figure out if he’s perfect for you, that you see all this stuff that puts you straight off. You never get the chance to fall for someone, warts and all, because you write them off as soon as you hit the first bump in the road.
You reach the point where you just don’t care anymore. A life of tragic spinster-dom seems infinitely more appetising than the stress of looking for love. Your friends seem determined to undermine any potential suitors, while berating you for still being single, and suddenly running your love life by committee doesn’t seem like such a great idea. So you stop forcing it.
Woman 1: Just give it time.
Man: Wait for him to find you.
Woman 2: You can’t hurry love.
During the following speech, the chorus characters disappear.
Laura: And this goes on and on. The cycle of bad dates, break-ups, girl-nights, until one day, you meet someone. You get along, exchange numbers, arrange to go for coffee. You start spending more and more time with each other, and all the while, the little voices of self-doubt and fear are getting quieter. Until finally, you’re hanging out with him one afternoon and happen to catch his eye. He smiles. You blush and look away shyly. You try to over-think it and analyse every possible meaning the look could have had. But the little voices have all disappeared. And in that moment, you realise, that despite having thrown away one year, 4 months and six days on your ex, gone on dozens of awful dates and cried your guts out over a few silly boys, it doesn’t matter anymore. Because there you. Face-to-face, hand-in-hand, with Mr Sweep-you-off-your-feet-blow-your-mind-take-your-breath-away.
She smiles to herself, as the lights fade down.
