You wrote a song for me. You wrote a book for me. How's that not good?

[Dice sighs, and realizes the hand on his face is weirdly damp. Ah, hell. Hurriedly, he wipes it on his pricey slacks.]

We oughta talk, yeah, but... I don't want you to go into it thinkin' I think anything bad about you. I ain't got room to judge, either. I know you get hurt real easy compared to me, and I keep messin' up and makin' you sad. So... tell me how to stop.

[A beat.]

And fuckin' leave my mom out of it.