Fifty years, no problem. Six months, I say let 'em die. Well, I've actually given this a lot of thought, and my personal tipping point is seven years, eight months, and 14 days.
[about his father] I don't hate him. I loved him until I figured out it hurts a lot less to just not care. You don't expect him to turn up to your football match? No disappointments. You don't expect a call on your birthday, don't expect to see him for months? No disappointments. You want us to go make up? Sink a few beers together, nice family hug? I've given him enough hugs. He's given me enough disappointments.
You want to get to the bottom of this, you're doing it exactly right: don't talk to the people involved. Drag your buddy away from work for some pointless speculation.
You want to know how two chemicals interact. Do you ask them? No, they're going to lie through their lying little chemical teeth. Throw them in a beaker and apply heat.
No, I have seen every scary movie ever made. Six-year old twins in front of an elevator with blood. Boys' choirs. Those are bad omens. This is much more mundane. A billionaire wants to get laid.
In about an hour there's going to be an emergency meeting with the transplant committee to discuss where you fall on the list should a new heart become available. Problem is, I am required to tell the committee about your bulimia, it's a major psychological condition, ranks up there with suicidal. Means you're a very bad risk.
CCarly
So you're here to tell me I have just a few hours to live?
No, it's actually more like we're dancing right now. So let's get to the point. You don't like me. I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna like you. It's nothing personal, I don't like anybody.