I've taken more pleasant shits than you, Mizora.

You smell very delicious, but I will not bite you.

I love this time of year. The dickheads start popping up.

Like moons make swell and wane the nescient seas, so too the sky-strewn gods ordain the tidal fates of mortal days. And yet - a notion born in lonely hours - come ebb, come flow, come all that is beyond the breadth of our dominion: be a moon unto yourself. Even the waves of fate can break upon the shores of will.

Fine, I guess I'll just stay here and eat dirt or whatever.