Roy: Okay, so how do I do it? Therapy, I mean, I mean, wh-- how do I start doing it?
Molly: Ooo-kay, Roy. Well, in parlance you might understand, just kick back and let the big dog eat.
Roy: Suppose there's this guy, and he's standing on the shore of a big wide river, and the... river's full of all manner of disaster, you know, piranhas, alligators, eddies, currents, shit like that nobody'll even go down there to dip a toe. And on the other side of the river's a million bucks, and on this side of the river is a rowboat.
Molly: Mm-hmm?
Roy: I guess my question's this: What would possess the guy standing on the shore to swim for it?
Molly: He is an idiot.
Roy: No, see, he's a helluva swimmer. His problem's more like why does he always have to rise to the challenge?
Molly: He is a juvenile idiot.
Roy: You don't understand what I mean by the river.
Molly: 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: You mean you're going to make me feel lousy?
Molly: No.
Roy: I came here to feel better. I mean, what kind of therapy is...
Molly: Roy, Roy, Roy, you don't have any inner demons. What you have is inner crapola, inner debris... garbage... loose wires, [laughs] horseshit in staggering amounts.
Roy: I'm not some just jerk driving range pro who drinks too much booze, eats too few vegetables, okay?
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