We are as done as well done steak in a grimy old diner. The waiter brings it to you and you're like, I ordered it medium-rare and you all but burnt this shit. That steaks is so done it's rock solid. You're afraid to take a bite because you'll chip your teeth. Take that shit home, scrape it out the box, and add it to your rock garden.

[Dave shakes his own hand. He's never touched himself from inside someone else's body before. It's weird. Also kind of hot. Is this what it feels like when other people touch him? Damn, he's fine.]

I could never stay mad at that face.