Working Girl

You can bend the rules upstairs, but not while you're trying to get there. And someone like me can't get there without bending the rules.

— How'd you get this scar?
— Some guy pulled a knife in Detroit.
— Really?
— No. No. I was 19 and I thought it'd be cool to have a pierced ear. My girlfriend stuck the needle through and I fainted and hit my chin on the toilet.
— Have you been telling that story ever since?
— You're the only one who knows the true story.
— Except the girlfriend.
— I had her disappear. It's too bad. Nice girl. Real shame.

You don't get ahead in this world by calling your boss a pimp.

You're like one of those crazed cops. The kind nobody wants to ride with, whose partners all end up dead or crazy.

— Now get your... What did you call it?
— Bony ass.
— Right... bony ass out of my sight.

— Tess, this is business. Let's just bury the hatchet, OK?
— You know where you can bury your hatchet? Now get your bony ass out of my sight.

I've cleared the month of June. And I am, after all, me.

I consider us a team, and as such we have a uniform. Simple, elegant, impeccable.

I read a lot of things. You never know where the big ideas could come from.

You're the first woman here that dresses like a woman, not like a woman thinks a man would dress if he was a woman.

— These things are usually so boring.
— I wouldn't know.
— Power to the people.
— The little people.