The more he denounced his own time, the more complacent he became.

Pregúntale a tu piel si ella te dejará escapar. Mientras tanto, recuerda dónde besaste y qué zapatos llevabas. 

Martha: Well, aren't you going to apologize?
George: Wasn't my fault — the road should've been straight.
Martha: Not that! For making her throw up.
George: I did not make her throw up.
Martha: You most certainly did.
George: I did not.
Honey: [still drunk] No, now, no…
Martha: Well, who do you think did? Sexy, back there? You think he made his own wife sick?
George: Well, you make me sick.
Martha: That's different.
(Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?)