carnitas y chicharrones

Louis! Louis! Fuck! Fuck! Louis... You don't eat where you shit, and you don't come inside the door you came out of. What on God's savage Earth is there to talk about? She was dying, Louis. I gave her the gift. No. No, it's basic. It's fundamental. No, it's a complicated, multifaceted set of circumstances! No- there's no circumstance that leads to, "Oh yeah, I can see how that would happen." You're being very judgy. "Come to Montreal. See me sing. Hey, meet my best friend with incestual benefits." This is all...all-time, Armand-level deceit. Oh, do not walk away and- and- and say his name. Do not compare me to him. How is this any different? This is a century-long lie! You hung her portrait over our coffins in New Orleans. It's sick. You're sick. We are unnatural beings! And this- this is the half-human soul that you conveniently whip out whenever you want to win an argument! What argument have you got for fucking your mother?! It's sickness. Maybe the source of all your sickness. But my God, seek a professional! Oh...you...You, you, you... You call me out of nowhere and say that you're paying a girl to pretend to be Claudia! You're paying a girl to pretend to be Madeleine! And what do I say? Do I say that you're sick, Louis? Do I see sickness? No! I spent a month and a half talking you back from unimaginable frenzy in the middle of my own fracturing! I offer you room under my roof! Ok. I offer you the possibility of reckoning your crippling guilt! I offer you... I off-... Ok. I offer you... It's OK. It's okay....it's okay. It's okay, it's okay. it's okay. it's okay. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's all right. It's all right. it's okay. it's okay. it's okay. it's okay. it's okay.