LINDSAY: So wait... where am I again?
KARL LAGERFELD: Imagine an astral Woodstock, pet. A DIFFERENT PLANE.
LINDSAY: Uh, dude, I'm getting on ANOTHER plane? I just got off this one.
KARL: No, I mean an EXISTENTIAL plane. Where are you? No: Where AREN'T you? I need to feel your elbows NOW.
LINDSAY: What the hell am I wearing?
KARL: What AREN'T you wearing, you PISTOL of GLORY! A dolphin, that's what!
LINDSAY: Why did I trust you to staple a sequined trash bag around my waist? God, I look so bloated in it.
KARL: Bloat is for sad people. DANCE!
LINDSAY: I can't. There's a bike chain on my head and it's giving me an f'ing headache, dude.
KARL: Then tighten it and climb inside. You're FASHION, darling! BE the bike.
LINDSAY: What I would like to BE is lying down on the astrology plane or whatever you said before, and NOT auditioning for the new Hell's Angels ballet. I think this is turning my forehead green. And the gloves itch.
KARL: It's like I told Michael Jackson: "If you can't love your glove, then GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, and also, only floss with real unicorn hair."
LINDSAY: Mom! MOOOOOM! Oh, wait. She's NEVER awake before midnight. God, I feel so alone.
KARL: Like an owl, she flies only at night...
LINDSAY: Hey, I actually understood that!
KARL: Well, accidents are the blueprints of fashion, luscious. Now SMILE before I staple a beak to your face.
