Roy, Roy… why are you here?
You’ve come for therapy? Okay, look, Roy, you know, you really need to make an appointment. Because I have a client in a half an hour.
Roy, we’re talking about you, and what you like to call your inner demons – that human frailty you like to blather about – not some mythopoetic metaphor you come up with in a… feeble and transparent effort to do yourself credit.
Roy, Roy, Roy, you don’t have any inner demons. What you have is inner crapola, inner debris… garbage… loose wires, a few…
horseshit in staggering amounts.
Why do men always insist on measuring their dicks?
I’m a, like, terrible shrink, probably. I should have never gotten out of real estate, shit, actually, I should have never left Ohio for that cowboy in Amarillo, but… Have you ever been to Amarillo?
Yeah. It’s not as romantic when you’re actually with one, trust me.
Oh, you amuse me, Roy, but I’m the only woman in America born after World War II that thinks astrology’s a crock of shit.
This is without a doubt the stupidest, silliest, most idiotic grotesquery masquerading as a game that has ever been invented.
All you have to do is walk up to this, this woman, wherever she is, look her in the eye – look at me, Roy – just look her in the eyes, that’s right, let down your guard, and don’t try to be cool or smooth or whatever; just be honest and take a risk. And you know what, whatever happens, if you act from the heart, you can’t make a mistake.
Well, I’m with you, Roy. I’m with you.
