I'm trying to think of whether or not I have personal issues with smoking anything that's growing out of my pores, and I can't come up with a damn thing.

[Well, it would take the edge off. And then reality sinks back in and he swats at Beau.] No, no. Enough of that. We're not going to become somebody's fucking garden decorations today. It's your turn. What about your mum? Was she a persnickety rich socialite? Wanted you to wear dresses and keep your hair long? I promise I'm not going to give enough of a fuck to remember any of this when it's all over.