It's not you, it's me - I have standards.

Go on. Give the worgs some Booze! They'll love it.

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.

Enjoy myself? There's a worm in my brain, I'm surrounded by idiots, and all I've got to drink is wine that tastes like vinegar.