So let me see if I got this. You wanna get into real estate. Is that it? Is that what all this is about? Is that really your groundbreaking epiphany here? No. That can’t really be it, is it? In your word salad, I heard something about drug dealing. Thing is, Pfizer and Eli are a few billion ahead of you, and they can buy your death with the same half-cent it costs them to make a pill. You wanna get into billboards? Download Photoshop. Make yourself a cute portfolio. Stores, with the debt everyone’s in, I’m sure they’ll gladly give them to you, in which case, you’ll just be owned by their banks. Trains are even more bankrupt, and don’t even get me started on the NYPD. Even that blunt you wanna roll is gonna be marked up by Big Tobacco itself. Point is, this city is one big, fat credit card bill, and you wanna pay it, all so you can, what, be another suit with a mortgage?[to Vera]
Our paths were too precisely linked to this moment for there not to be a reason. This is why. You get to decide.
How ya doin’, Freddy? Not too good? That’s okay. I get it. Jerking off to underage girls on live video chats is one thing. When it’s played back, though, kinda loses its magic.
He’s shutting down, compartmentalizing the pain, living in the distraction, just like the holidays: the fake Santas, the plastic trees, the annoying Christmas carols… One big song-and-dance production to sell ourselves the theater that everything’s jolly, at least for a moment. But when it’s all over, Santa’s gone back to his s***ty day job. The trees get disassembled and thrown in a closet. The music’s faded away. What then?[about Elliot]