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Mr. Damon: It’s estimated the observable universe is 93 billion light-years across. It’s probably more accure…
Abby: I’m gonna be so far away.
Nick: I don’t care. I don’t want to break up. I’ll come on the weekends.
Abby: Stanford’s on the other side of the country.
Nick: My dad has, like, ten million frequent flyer miles. He won’t care.
Abby: (coughing) Oh.
Mr. Damon: Are we all right over here?
Abby: Uh, yes, Mr. Damon. I just had something caught in my throat.
Mr. Damon: Abby, you know you’re not supposed to have any food or drinks in here.
Abby: Oh, it’s just water. I have a cough. I didn’t want to disturb anyone.
Mr. Damon: We can only observe 4% of the universe. The rest of it is unaccounted for.
Nick: I never knew you were such a good liar.
Abby: Well, a little more vodka, and you might find out some more things you didn’t know about me.
Mr Damon: Nicholas.
Nick: Yes, sir?
Mr Damon: What conclusions can we draw from the incredible number of stars?
Nick: That the movie’s either gonna be really good or really bad.
Mr Damon: I was thinking more about the implications for extraterrestrial life.
Nick: Well, I guess if there’s an infinite number of stars, odds are there’s at least one galaxy with life other than our own
Mr Damon: Or
Nick: Or… not?
Mr. Damon: Or our solar system is somehow unique. The question then becomes, “in what way?”
Nick: (quietly to Abby) The question then becomes, “could you possibly teach us anything more useless?” (looking over at Abby who is staring straight up with unblinking eyes) What are you looking at? (He follows her gaze and then, looking back
at her, sees that she has red, foam oozing out of her mouth) Nick: Abby? (He gets out of his seat and shakes her gently) Oh, my God. Something’s wrong. She’s not breathing. Abby?
Mr. Damon: Call 911.
Wilson: Would you mind at least putting a napkin under your jelly toast?
House: Get a table, and I won’t eat it on the couch.
Wilson: (putting on his overcoat) Yes, you will.
House: But I won’t have a good excuse.
Wilson: Why don’t you go get a table?
House: Not my condo.
Wilson: You have my permission. Pick out whatever you want.
House: Then it would be a reflection of me, not you. That wouldn’t be right.
Wilson: (He picks his keys off the counter and packs his briefcase) No, it would be a reflection of the fact that the guy who’s been mooching off of me for as long as I can remember, isn’t a complete ingrate.
House: (pausing) You’ve never furnished a home.
Wilson: I have furnished a bunch of homes.
House: No, you’ve married a bunch of women, who furnished a bunch of homes.
Wilson: You want to eat off something? Fine. Move your piano in here and eat off that.
House: You’re afraid.
Wilson: Of a dining table? You know, they don’t actually come to life when you put a knob off your bedpost on them.
House: You are what you sit in. Your friends, your job, your furnishings – it all defines you.
Wilson: You don’t really believe that. You just don’t want to do the shopping.
House: Buy some furniture, or admit that you’re empty inside.
Chase: X-rays confirm the fluid that almost suffocated her to death was from pulmonary edema.
Foreman: Means the problem’s either in her heart or lungs.
Thirteen: Tox screen’s clean for everything except the alcohol, and her B. A. C. was barely.05.