Don't you think I have anything better to do than go scrambling around hundreds of square miles of the toughest wilderness in the state looking for pie in the sky?
It's still only on the 5-turn timer if you're hit by a monster-thrown egg, though, as opposed to the instadeath from elementary physics if you throw one upwards yourself.
This cleft sentence in turn cleaves narrative genre: Baré's story, formerly an account of loyal masculine servitude, now proceeds as a feminine sentimental narrative, yet one in which she figures, hermaphroditically, as both distressed female and the masculine hero who rescues her.
I know I'm preachin' to the congregation. We love Jesus, but you done learned a lot from Satan
