[—"Losing my shit wantonly in the streets." Okay, Dave, what the fuck, that thing where you phrase things in inexplicably gross ways is still a thing that's happening that really needs to not. Karkat can't deny that it's helping in some equally confusing way that probably means there's something seriously fucking wrong with him (like that was ever up for debate), but he can't even bring himself to smile at it because why does he always do this. It isn't intentional, it isn't, but he keeps losing his shit when he's supposed to be handling his moirails and god he is the worst fucking failure of a troll, he can't even do his fucking job when he's in that quadrant with a human. Dave is spectacularly fucked up, there's no denying that, but goddammit, it's—he's—

Karkat squeezes his eyes shut and leans into the touch, trying to just—fucking—stop. Just stop. Stop making it worse, stop acting like he has any right at all to oh wow okay that feels nice. The smell of chicken is making him hungry again, but it's not as distracting as it could be or even as distracting as the realization that he's going to need to find some way to get Dave back for this even if he has only the palest of intentions. This douchebag.

... Seriously, though, what the fuck, "conciliating you into oblivion?" This is not a fucking porno, who even talks like that? Dave, that's who. Christ.]

I don't even need to say anything derogatory about your intelligence with you tripping over yourself to open your gaping meal tunnel and release whatever explosive bout of flatulence you're passing off as language these days. If someone can't piece together how full of shit you are from that alone, they fucking deserve whatever auditory horrors you inevitably unleash.

[... he's feeling better, in other words, or possibly just trying very, very hard to pretend that he is. He's getting there.]