“You're not me,' Millhouse gritted.'True. I'm sitting in a chair wearing Armani. You're on the floor, wearing an ugly orange jumpsuit. You're facing a long stay at Hotel Don't-Bend-Over and I'll go home to a soft, warm bed. I'm glad I'm not you for those reasons alone. But the biggest difference between us is my people believe in me and yours don't.”

“Vee: And I'm not going to let you sit at home all afternoon with your sour face on.Nora: I don't have a sour face.Vee: Yes, you do. And you're wearing it right now.Nora: This is my annoyed face. You woke me up at six in the morning!”

“But don't go thinking that I'm critical of you, Anton, because really I'm not. Not a bit! It's just that you're not here. I'm alone and I'm frightened and you're not here. And you're not ever going to be here for me.”

“I'm not that squeamish, Mr. Stone.""Ethan," he said. "I'm naked. I'm in a tub. You're wearing my nightshirt. You've already slept in my bed. I think you should call me Ethan.”

“The woman in charge of costuming assigned us our outfits and gave us a lecture on keeping things clean. She held up a calendar and said, "Ladies, you know what this is. Use it. I have scraped enough blood out from the crotches of elf knickers to last me the rest of my life. And don't tell me, 'I don't wear underpants, I'm a dancer.' You're not a dancer. If you were a real dancer you wouldn't be here. You're an elf and you're going to wear panties like an elf.”

“I'm done, Travis." He winced. "Don't say that." "It's over. Go home." His eyebrows pulled in. "You're my home.”