Zach: I've never felt this way before. I'm seriously unhappy. This is just not the bush-league blues. We're talking major-league depression here. I can't sleep. I take pills. But they only last a couple of hours and then I'm up at 4:00 in the morning pacing the fucking house or walking on the cold fucking beach. I'm so miserable, I wanna fucking shoot myself. But, I can't because I'm afraid to die. How's that for fucked-up?
[Zach hits the wall and starts sobbing]
Zach: So what's the answer? Oh, I forgot. You don't have answers. You're not the burning bush. You just give suggestions. Well, I need help. I'm in the fucking dumper. Give me a suggestion because I know you've got one. I can see it in those beady little Freudian eyes.
Dr. Westford: If an alcoholic wants me to cure him, you know what I say?
[sighs]
Zach: That's a question. That's not a suggestion.
[sighs again]
Zach: Okay. What do you say?
Dr. Westford: First, stop drinking.
Zach: I don't get it.
Dr. Westford: Go home and think about it. That's my suggestion.
