Well, there's my excuse. I'm late because my tits caught on fire.
Thank God for bar cars.
Don't worry, I'll replace it. Okay?
An eyelash curler? And what am I going to do with that? Stab myself? Curl my tongue to death?
Yeah, I know I drink a lot, I know I do because I'm a writer and that's what I do, I drink. I'm not like those people out there, I can control myself! I can, if - that - if I wanted to, I could, if I wanted. I can! I can!
You know, your carpet is filthy. And I only bring that up because carpet grit's responsible for a lot of major health problems. And that's the last thing that you need around here is a major health problem.
Um, hey, um, listen, about the um, about that uh, jail thing... I-I-I- I can't. I-I I can't go. Um, uh, well, not because I don't want to go, but, um, it, uh, oh God, my hands, you know, they just keep doing that. That's not normal. I just-- there's something wrong with my hands-- um, well, with me. Cause, uh, what kind of person just jumps out of a- what kind of person jumps out of a window, you know? Because she can't sit still, you know? And be alone and, you know, in a room, without-- You know a person should be able to just be alone, right? You know, human beings should be able to just breathe. I can't breathe. And I feel that I think I know-- I think I know that if I go to jail... like this, you know, I'll die, and, uh, I don't wanna die.
Oh, so our therapist today is a very large, smelly, beast of burden.
I am so tired by the way you people talk. You know, I mean, "one day at a time." What is that? I mean, like two, three days at a time is an option?
I'm not a lesbian!
You don't have to live my shitty little life, and until you do, do not tell me to give up the one person who matters to me, okay! Because, I know, he's not perfect, but he's the one person that will show up, on my birthday, and he'll say, "I'm glad you were born!"
Santa Cruz watcher!
I understand. Marry a cute girl, move to the suburbs, spend your weekends mowing. You'll never want to do coke again.
God, I love afternoons like this. You know what's missing in this afternoon? That I don't have a very dry vodka martini with two olives in a chilled glass. God, I miss that.
Look, I know peoples perceptions of girls who screw other girls' boyfriends. I know what the world's perception is on someone who goes into a bar and realizes five hours later that I've left my three-year-old godson in the back of the car. I mean, people don't like people like that. They don't like-- I don't like people like that.
Promise me we were safe.
You're not like, uh, one of them paternity suit kind of gals.
I bet you can't sit still and be quiet for even one minute.
I only work every fifth day. Hell else am I supposed to do with my time.
You know, lately I've been lying awake at night thinking of all the dumb-ass things I've done when I was messed up. One night last year, at dinner, I threw up all over my glazed ham. Then I was thinking, "Well, maybe nobody noticed."
Look, I messed up. I got riled up, and there isn't a lot I can do about it right now. Except I just want to say I'm sorry, and uh, you know, people make mistakes. If you can't handle that-- it you-- if you want to decide that, uh, my messing up means I'm not worth being your friend, then you aren't half as smart as you think you are.
Is this yours, or mine?
Who the hell do you have to know to get a drink around here?
Just break open the bread.
This is so not how I saw this whole thing playing out!