Thirst

American Horror Story. Double Feature: Red Tide

10×3

Alma Gardner: I think that there are people that are really good at something... And then there's everybody else. I feel like everybody else could just disappear one day and it wouldn't matter.
Harry Gardner: .... Me too.

Harry Gardner: That's what happened to those pale people. They took the pills, but they didn't have any talent, so they turned into nothing. But you were great already. You didn't need to take the pills.
Alma Gardner: But I don't want to be great. I want to be the greatest.

Alma Gardner: I don't know if I could do that.
Harry Gardner: That's the price of being the greatest.

Alma Gardner: Dad?
Harry Gardner: Yes, honey?
Alma Gardner: I'm hungry now.

Harry Gardner: Do you mind if I come in?...

Ursula: I didn't come all this way to deal with emotional shit. You know, you want that, get a manager.

Ursula: I thought I would hop on over here and check on you. And no one told me what an enormous pain in the ass it is to come out here.
Harry Gardner: I think there's a ferry you can take from Boston. You just drive your car right on.
Ursula: Oh, no, no, I don't like to ride in vehicles that carry other vehicles. It just... It does not feel right to me.

Harry Gardner: What? Oh, my God! No, no, Quentin writes everything himself.
Ursula: Up until now. But he said... And I quote... "That motherfucker is a better writer than I am." And then he said something about how he just got married and so it's harder for him to do what he has to do to write things and that you would understand what that means and why he wants you to write it.

Ursula: There are fewer talented writers in the world than there are astronauts. There's a few great ones, a lot of terrible ones, and a pack of interchangeable ones who move from one network writer's room to the next. My client Harry was one of those writers until he arrived here. And now he's Mark fucking Twain.

Ursula: Sorry, homeboy, but there is something weird going on out here, and I want to know what it is. You guys sell your souls to the devil? Aliens? Uh, little writer elves?

Mickey: You don't understand. See, it's... It's really fucked up, what happens when you take them.
Ursula: I represent the producers of "The Bachelor." Fucked up is my bread and butter.

Belle Noir: I've never pictured a more inhospitable home than yours, Mickey. How do you not just wake up and kill yourself every day?

Mickey: I'm one of you now.
Belle Noir: Honey, you're a paper airplane and I'm a 747. Don't you ever think you're anything like me just because you can fly a little.

Holden Vaughn: When I'm looking to get inspired, I like to go down to the beach and feel the colors. The color of the waves, of the... of the sky, of the sand.
Chief Burleson: What do colors feel like?
Holden Vaughn: What does love feel like? What does Mahler feel like? What does the perfect Jean Prouvé chair feel like? Darling, if you have to ask, you wouldn't understand.

Holden Vaughn: I like it here, though, in the winter. It's quieter. Except for those pale, strange homeless creatures wearing the AIDS-era couture...

Mickey: There's a chemist. I know where their house is, but look, there's two rules when you're out here, right? Never steal lobsters out of another man's pot, and never go near that house.

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