(the amount, gender, age and race of performers is optional. Dumb show, music, costumes, extravaganza encouraged)

This is not a love story

It's not really a story

It just is

There are love stories to be told

Big brass ones where one lover kills the other over the death of their child

Or crude ones where one lover cheats on the other, no shame

Or ones where the guy gets the girl, loses the girl and wins the girl back

Or ones that are a bit more unconventional, usually pretty girl on pretty girl action because god forbid we have a non-male-gazed depiction of women or if it's gays one of them has AIDS and dies because god forbid we have a happy ending for the buggerers. 

Or the divorce love stories that tell us nothing ever truly dies, whilst depicting something very final, a death of sorts

Or the fling that wasn't meant to be story that tell us the right one will come along one day, whilst telling us that they might as easily pass you by

Or the single woman can find happiness for a bit but ultimately she's a lot happier if she's got a hunk on her arm stories because god forbid a woman is enough in herself

Or the bereavement love story, the story of loss that makes you cry

Or the one where they are actually much happier apart but never leave each other anyway

Or the one where they're together for the children

Or the fleeting moment story, the intense love that all other loves will be measured against but it actually only lasted a couple of days, or months but never years, it was too intense, burned too hot to last 

This is none of those

This is not even a story of the quiet kind of love, the kind that drapes blankets over sleeping partners or makes cups of tea in the morning

This isn't a story of friends who become lovers who become friends again and ultimately lose touch

This isn't a story where the girl likes Duran Duran and the guy likes Velvet Underground and they shouldn't work but somehow do for a while but ultimately not love but loneliness will tear them apart

This isn't a story of strangers meeting in a bar and finding themselves snogging in a car park at five in the morning

This isn't one where the guy asks the girl to marry him, drunk, behind a bar, with a key ring

This isn't a story where the woman puts up her glasses to take a better look at the man on the other side of the bar

This story has no bars

This isn't one where the girl gets to be girly and obsessive

This isn't one where the guy gets to be mysterious and aloof

There will be no passionate kisses in the rain

There will be no hotel rooms full of sex

There might be a slight squeeze of an upper arm or a reassuring smile somewhere

But you wouldn't call it a love story

It's more of a ...

What would you call it?

What is it called when people just are as they are around each other? 

What genre is a story filled with trust and understanding? 

What would you say two family members just being quite pleasant with each other would be dramatized as?

What is a story filled with one doing the dishes when the other one is exhausted and hangry?

What is a story when the guy fucks up but she lets it slide, not because she's sub-servant but because she knows she fucks up loads too and they've learnt to pick their battles? 

What's that? 

Because love is dramatic, isn't it?

Love is big musical numbers and ugly tears

Love is picking at the scabs and bubbling with jealousy

Love is when a boy hurts a girl on a playground 'because boys will be boys'

Love is a getaway wedding, something hidden from society, something very private and full of lust

Love is a glorified moment in time, unsustainable

Love is a word we use to describe something we've seen in the movies

Love is also a word we use when talking about our grandparents

So what is a love story then? 

A love story is a fiction

A love story is a breath

A love story is everything we say to everyone we know

But this isn't a love story

This is just...

​What would you call it?

On a very crowded train. A woman comes in, Mary, waits for another to move her bag so she can sit. The one already seated, Claire, looks annoyed but moves it anyway. 

Mary: Jesus, really packed today huh?
Claire: Mhmm (looks around for headphones that are in the bag she's currently stuck with on her lap)
Mary: and what weather we're having, eh?
Claire: (fakes a short smile) yup
Mary: I won't bother you
Claire: thanks
....

Mary: Did you...
Claire (takes her headphones off reluctantly) what?
Mary: I was just wondering if you heard about the newest thing over in America
Claire: Trump? Yeah, heard of him
Mary: Yeah, well, I guess everyone has heard of him but it's the latest thing
Claire: Shouldn't waste your time on that orangutan. (puts up headphones again)
Mary: right

...

Claire: (taking off her headphones again) Actually that's not really fair on orangutans but you know what I mean
Mary: yeah
Claire: was it something interesting?
Mary: well you can't really tell what's real these days
Claire: yeah, fake news etc etc
Mary: yeah. But I was wondering how much of it was bullshit before we started calling it fake news
Claire: Alternative facts you mean
Mary: (gets the joke) right! 

...

Claire: I thought you had something to say?
Mary: Oh, well, I've forgotten now I'm afraid. 
Claire: oh. (puts her headphones on again, a bit peeved)
(Mary thinks of what she meant to say finally but sees that she's lost her listener and decides against disturbing her again)

(A man comes in and wolf whistles Claire. She doesn't notice it but Mary does.)

Mary (nudging Claire): What a prick
Claire: excuse me?
Mary: they're everywhere now
Claire (taking her headphones off): what?
Mary: sexists, pervs, it's everywhere. (indicates to the man, who is busy reading something on his phone now)
Claire: what are you on about?
Mary: Don't worry, I've got this

(Mary stands up and walks over to the man. Starts doing a chicken impression aggressively at him. Claire watches with as much bewilderment as the man)

Mary: This is you. A big fucking chicken. 

(Claire starts laughing, the man looks around as to say 'what the fuck?')

Claire: what, have you never seen a chicken on the train before? 
Mary: yeah, this chick clucks back!
Man (to Mary): I wasn't even whistling at you, you crazy bitch
Mary: you're thinking of dogs, I'm doing a chicken
Man: jesus christ lady, get over yourself
Mary (to the whole train): Sisters, if you are tired of being treated like animals will you stand up and do the chicken with me? 
Claire: Hell yes
(they do chicken impressions at each other now, the Man has no idea what the hell is going on)

(The train announcement comes on, the next stop is.... whatever it is. Mary comes over to Claire, high fives her, grabs her bag and exits as the train stops. Claire sticks her tongue out at the man as she sits back down, smiles to herself and puts her headphones back on.)

He: But I just don't understand why you feel the need?
She: No, you don't. 
He: Can you explain?
She: I can try.

She: But the thing is you can't explain the unexplainable. Hey, I have this weird need to see my own blood and I make it happen. Just a drop and I feel better. How is that an explanation? It doesn't psychoanalyze why that need is there to begin with. I can't explain that one, I have no clue whatsoever. 

He: yeah, I still don't really get it but thanks for trying I guess.

She: He's completely turned off now, thinks I'm a creep. A freak, a major problem that needs solving. But he also thinks he can save me, that it doesn't have to be this way. But it's always been like this. Since the first pimple got squeezed to death at age 11.

He: so, like, when you have a nosebleed you're happy?
She: No, that's not voluntary.
He: or when your gums bleed
She: no, both of those are a sign of something being wrong with you
He: so, it needs to be on purpose? And that's not a sign of something being wrong with you?

She: why would anyone hurt themselves on purpose? It's bonkers. It goes against all survival instincts. It's completely messed up. I know, I know, I know. But there are so many unexplained things in this world, why do we need to solve this one? Why can't you just let me be?

He: will you promise me to try stopping this, it's not healthy for you. 
She: healthy? I'm not cutting big strips off my skin off, I'm just seeing a tiny bit of blood. 
He: you cut yourself?
She: not like, what's so special about the emo cake kind of way
He: what?
She: it cuts itself...
He: you think this is funny?

She: it's not about being funny. It's not even about the pain so much like you see in the movies. It's about something hidden being seen, about getting proof of life running through your veins. I don't know. I just like it. It quiet things down. I need a bit of quiet. 

He: I think we need to see someone
She: because I'm the bonkers one

She: you have to turn the key twice, OCD. You can't stand the sight of spiders. Phobia. You have an issue with the way your father speaks to your mother. Daddy issues. You get bored easily. ADHD. You have fewer fucks to give than the average Joe. Sociopath. Everyone is on 'the spectrum'. Of course, apart from the person telling you that you're crazy, they are perfect in any way shape or form. 

He: If you cared for me you wouldn't treat yourself like this. 
​She: If you cared for me you wouldn't try and change me. 

My heart brims with happiness whenever I see the snow

- Ice cold

A quiet settles in

- Ice cold

​And ​I watch my breath, suddenly tangible

- ice cold 

Listen to the wind and the creaking of my footsteps

- ice cold

I can't imagine never having seen it

- melting

but then again I can't imagine being used to a warmth, a baking, a fan oven of hot wind in my face since the day I was born

-melting

I can't imagine never having tasted fish or getting used to giant spiders or snakes

- melting

Or swimming in the ocean in my home town without freezing or finding black beaches a novelty

-melting

I don't know what growing up in a poor area feels like, though I've been poor in a rich one

- melting

I can't put myself in shoes of people living in a different world

- melting

I only know what I know

- what

I only know who I know

- who

I only know this northerly wind, though I've felt others on my skin momentarily

- how

I only know a society where I have certain rights

- why

And I can't pretend that my experience is universal



But I know people love the same

- wholeheartedly

And I know people bleed the same

-wholeheartedly 

And I know people laugh the same

- wholeheartedly

And I know people feel hunger the same

- body and soul

And I know people crave alike

- body and soul

And lust alike

- body and soul

And stare up into that sky feeling the same kind of tiny


So when I say let me in I want you to imagine looking up at the moon in all seven continents at once

And when I say call this home with me I want you to taste the salt of the five oceans of this planet and tell me how they differ

Because it may be snowing here, now, but that sun has us all in its gaze. It can see you building that wall around you from outer space. It's not a rat race, it's not a maze. It's a moment in time, meet me face to face. 

Mike:
So we just sat there.
I had hoped he'd be a bit more happy about the prospect but he just sat there. I can only imagine what was going through his head. Surprise? Disappointment?  Analyses? Who knows, some sort of data processing. Going through that folder in his head of possible ways a proposal might be made and why his 18 year old boyfriend would possibly pop the question in a funeral home whilst picking out his best friend's coffin. 

He must have thought me scared, petrified of dying alone or maybe he thought I had AIDS or something. Amazing how Hollywood programs us, isn't it? In any case he just sat there for the longest time. Practically forever. And I just stared into my lap hoping not to hear the word no. 

No, you're 18 and you don't know what you want, how could you?
No, you've just lost someone and I don't want to replace them, I can't replace them.
No, ask me again in 5 years time if you still want to. 
No, and it's always going to be no so let's just split. 
No, I'm already married and I never told you. 
No, you silly fool, why on Earth would you think I would want to marry you?

But he said none of those things. That is, after the silence was finally broken. 

Joe:
We just sat there.
Who asks someone to marry them in a fucking funeral home?
I just didn't know what to say. 
It's not that I didn't love him, I loved him so much. But pick your moments kid!
Dave just died! And...

He didn't know of course. He didn't know I'd been married before, at his precise age and I knew it was a mistake. Not just because I was gay and she wasn't. But because at 18 you don't know anything and you certainly don't know yourself. But I loved him, and I didn't want him to think I didn't. I didn't think we were close to being over, but that doesn't mean I wanted to be married again. Ever. To anyone. I wasn't looking for a change at all. 

Silly fool. 
My little fool. Actually quite grown up for his age but still so full of youth. What would I do without him? What was he doing with me anyway? I'd be a fool if I turned him down, yet I couldn't just say yes. So we just sat there. 

Mike:
Finally a little bitty tear let me down. He saw it fall on my hand and instinctively wiped it away. The touch of his hand, so calming, so devastating. His fingers slid into my palm, forcing my fingers apart to make way for his. 

I'm a fool, I said, and he squeezed a little tighter.

Joe:
He called himself a fool and I couldn't help but smile. He makes me smile so easy. Yeah, I said, but you're my fool. He started proper bawling then and I caught his tears with both hands as they came cascading down his face. 

I love you, I said, just don't ask this of me. 

Mike:
I thought it was over then. Me having a proper greet in the funeral home, not about my friend but for myself like a baby. But that's not what was supposed to happen to us. The ghost of Dave must have been lingering because suddenly we could hear the ice-cream truck and we both started laughing. Quietly at first and then manically, cackling.

Come, he said, it's maybe not the fancy affair you were hoping for, but why don't we start the rest of our lives together over some fairly dodgy ice-cream?

I kissed him then. Are you going for vanilla or strawberry? I asked. You choose he said, just like Dave would have. 

"Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage." My teenage anthem and yet I secretly hoped I would not grow up to have conversations (in my head) that go:

They: I'm afraid there's nothing I can do.
Me: Well then I'm afraid you leave me no choice but to slaughter you. I'm going to see your insides splatter the walls. I'm going to lick your blood off my fingers after writing my name in it. I'm going to see to it personally that every single person you love suffers a horrible and slow death, I will inject their eyeballs with cancer given the chance and have squirrels claw out their eardrums. You will rue the day you met me and I will dance on your grave. I will slander your ancestors, I will poison the wells of your children, I will burn every retina in sight, imprinting a lasting image of your cruelty and the world will say I am just in doing so, because you, dear person who answers phones, will go down in history as the biggest arsehole this world ever pooped out. No one will mourn you, because you have no soul and I will be a hero for bringing about your demise. Now bow down to my will, bitch. 

But of course I don't say that to the council or the tax or anyone else who is hellbent on me spending the rest of my life in bitter poverty, seizing every single pound that quivers for a moment on my bank statement. Because despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage. And this cage isn't getting any bigger. The 'American Dream' or whatever its European equivalent is hasn't brought on anything but nightmares, a cacophony of voices telling you you have failed, the loudest one being your own. You are poor because you deserve to be, not because the system is rigged they say and bit by bit you sink into the depression that is the capitalist mindset because you have been told it is a law of nature, rather than a tool of oppression. They've got you good.

Wriggle little rat. Or get used to the cage.

Or kill that bitch that picks up the phone and fakes impotence whenever you need anything doing. Like me.

I like this cage better. At least I know I deserve this one. At least I know that this time, this time, the system can't wriggle out of taking care of me. I might be a rat in a cage but you're going to keep me alive.   

Beep Hi, you've reached my voicemail. I'm not here right now obviously but leave a message if you like or you could call me back at a later time or text me or write me an email or message me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram etc etc. Woah, I can't actually believe you called, it kind of seems like an extinct method of communication when you place it alongside all the other stuff, doesn't it? And why would you want to talk when you can plan what to say and write it down? I guess I can't obsessively read every word and take it out of context in a phone conversation. So maybe don't leave a message as I can listen to that over and over. I'll see a missed call anyway. Okay bye! Beeep When you've finished recording your message press hash for more options or hang up. 

J: I'm hanging up. I'm hanging up and I'm walking back to my flat because I guess it's mine and that's what you do. I was going to call Izz but as she so delicately put it what the heck is the point of that? If I truly wanted to reach her I eventually could. But being faced with failure at such a simple task of speaking to someone I'd rather just bury my head in the sand. 

Beep Hi you've reached my voicemail.

J: I hang up though it's such an old expression, I'm not hanging up anything, I'm pressing a screen that is flat and suddenly I have this utter urge to get rid of my phone and get a land line with a big ass receiver I can hang the fuck up. 

Beep Hi you've reached my voicemail.

J: Reached. I've reached nothing, I've traveled no distance, nothing has been exchanged and I'm not even being charged for this phone call. And I want to write a letter now rather than a text, I want to meet up rather than tick a box that says I'm attending. I want something real. But Izz is out and I can't reach her. Not that hearing a voice at the end of the line would be anything tangible, she could still be not just once removed but twice, a voice only and her mind on something else. I want to shake her. I want to get out of this bubble of removed reality, I just want something real. 

Beep Hi you've reached my voicemail.

J: Get me off this carousel. Get me off the planet. Get the planet out of my hands and my hands into someone else's. 

Beep

J: But what would I say, if she actually answered?

Beep Hi, you've reached my voicemail. I'm not here right now obviously but leave a message if you like or you could call me back at a later time or text me or write me an email or message me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram etc etc. Woah, I can't actually believe you called, it kind of seems like an extinct method of communication when you place it alongside all the other stuff, doesn't it? And why would you want to talk when you can plan what to say and write it down? I guess I can't obsessively read every word and take it out of context in a phone conversation. So maybe don't leave a message as I can listen to that over and over. I'll see a missed call anyway. Okay bye! Beeep When you've finished recording your message press hash for more options or hang up.

J: Hi Izz. This is your voicemail which you and I both know you'll never check so I just wanted to say that if I had it my way I'd only ever see you face to face and forget you ever existed online. We could be, just be. Maybe. 

​Izz: Hello?

busy dial tone

Hvað segiru?

Ha?

Æi

Hvað?

Bara

Ókei



Ég meina

Já?

Þetta er eitthvað svo...

Já

Jebb



Ókei

Ókei?

Já já

Ókei




Ég meina

Já?

Æi, nei, gleymdu þessu

Láttu ekki svona

Já spýttu þessu út úr þér

Ókei



Nei, andskotinn

Hvað er að þér þarna?

Úff

Já, segi það með þér



Mér finnst bara

Já?

Æi nei, sleppum þessu

Jesús á reiðhjóli

Já, Jesús minn eini



Mig langar svo
Mig langar svo að geta sagt hlutina hreint út
Með orðum, skiluru?
Bara hreint og beint
Ekki svona hálf eitthvað
Bara nákvæmlega það sem ég meina og ekkert annað
En það flækist allt
Verður eitthvað svo óyfirstíganlegt
Og svo getur maður ekkert breytt hlutunum eftirá
Þetta er bara þarna, að eilífu 
Og hvað getur maður þá gert?
Eitthvað lítið
Eilífðin er nokkuð löng
En ég vildi bara segja þér
Og ég ætla að reyna að gera það almennilega í þetta skiptið
Ekki eins og öll hin
Í þessa eilífð þarna sem ég hef ekki sagt það sem ég vildi sagt hafa
Að 

Já?

Ekki trufla mig

Jesús

Ókei

Mig langaði bara að segja þér að ég sé eftir því að hafa aldrei tekið af skarið. 
Að vera gunga, skilurðu?
Nei, ekki, ég verð að koma þessu frá mér
Ókei, 
Sko, 
Ég ætlaði ekkert að vera svona mikill ræfill
Sjitt, ég get ekki einu sinni fundið hugrekkið til að segja þér hvað ég er mikil gunga
Hversu fokking ömurlegt er það?
Nei, ekki
Ég hefði átt að þora meira
Í lífinu, almennt
Og fela mig minna
Og segja þér allt
En ég gerði það ekki
Ég bara gerði það ekki og ég get ekki fundið neina aðra ástæðu en að ég var hræddur
Og hræðsla hún brennir sig inn í allt
Og hún lamar mann
En hún ætti ekki að gera það að verkum að maður geti ekki komið almennilega fram 

Nei
Ertu hræddur núna?

Ég held ég hafi verið hræddur allt mitt líf, meira og minna
Um að fokka öllu upp
Mistakast
Ævinlega
En það eru stærstu mistökin
Að vera svona fokkin hræddur alltaf
Og núna ætla ég að hætta því
Ókei?

Ókei

Ókei

Má ég tala núna?

Nei

Nei?

Nei

Hvað þá?

Þú mátt syngja fyrir mig

Ókei

Ókei

Ókei

Hvað á ég eiginlega að syngja?

Hvað sem er

Hvað sem er?

Já

Ókei

Bara ekki hætta

Ókei

Syngur​

A radio play

I wanted to be interesting. 
I really did.
But I'm not really, am I? 
I like The Cure
And The Clash
But I don't like that they are called THE
It's well pretentious.
And I'm not really edgy.
I don't like greens.
I don't get veganism. 
I like meat. 
I like Friends
and Modern Family.
Super boring, I know.
Not a blank page, full of potential but a boring doodle you'd throw away.
​
I eat cereal for breakfast. 
I don't go to the gym. 
I see stuff at the cinema but never the really artsy, ballsy stuff. 
I'm not interesting. 
I'm not saying that just because, I don't want your pity. It's not something you need to feel sorry for me for. 
I mean, I'd like to be more interesting but at the end of the day it's fine. 
I could always take up something wacky I guess. 
Something to make me seem like I'm interesting. 
But not veganism. 

Being non-interesting has its perks. 
Strangers don't start conversations with you. 
People don't remember you so you can get free stuff twice.
Or more. I haven't really pushed my luck with that yet. 
You aren't accosted on the street by interesting types who work for charity. 
You do get harassed by people trying to sell stuff because they think you need stuff to feel happy. But most people get harassed by those jerks. 
It's like having a hangover, people don't have to try very hard to ignore you. 
I'm not interesting so people assume they don't need to worry about me. 

They'd be wrong. 
Not because I'm suicidal or something. 
No. 

I'm not interesting in the sense that I'll probably run you over. 
Or shoot you with my rifle, a whole island full of bodies. 
Freeze your cat. 
Stick your granny in a wheelie bin. 
A lone wolf. 
I'd be a terrorist if I was another skin colour. Lucky me, I get to be a 'bad egg' instead. 
I'm not a star athlete so it won't seem random or out of character.
That's the perk of not having a character.

Have I killed someone? 
Would that make me more interesting?
​You're seriously wishing I have, aren't you? 
You're obsessed with bad people, with those who cross that line, that live that life, that dare to end another's. 
It's okay. You're allowed. 
You're allowed to look at that car crash, don't look away. 
You're allowed to binge on Dexter. It's fascinating. 
You're alright. 
You just want to see, curiosity is normal. You think it's because you don't understand the urge but that's not necessarily true, is it? Maybe you watch and read and devour all you can about the 'bad eggs' because you wish you were brave enough. 
Because you think it's cool. 
Like smoking. 
it's pretty fucking cool. 
But I told you. 
I'm not interesting. 

And you're so disappointed now. What the hell are you listening to then? Just an average person? Someone completely normal and boring? 
Yup.
You're wishing I was a cold blooded killer. 
You'd probably keep listening in hope that I'll turn out to be for a while. 
You'd stomach the really boring stuff, the brushing of teeth, the doing dishes, the folding laundry, the story about how I forgot to buy eggs but wanted to make an omelette, the really mind numbing dullness of life just holding your breath for that eerie moment of calm and carefully constructed murder. 
And I want to be interesting. 
I want to gratify you, reward your patience and give you what you want. 
So here it is. 
I'm hiding some rat poison in some cheese. 
A rat squeaks. Silence.
Are you happy now?
I wanted to be interesting for you.
I really did.