'it's so hard,' i muttered, 'doing this on my own.'
'what?' a shrill voice of protest echoed from my rucksack. 'who are you talking to, if you're "on your own"? let's have some accuracy here.'
i rolled my eyes. 'sorry. scratch that. apart from an evil talking skull imprisoned in a dirty old jar and carried around out of a perverse sense of pity, i'm on my own. that makes a world of difference.'
'how can you say that?' we're pals, you and me.'
'we are so not pals. you've tried to get me killed dozens of times.'
'i'm dead too, remember. maybe i'm lonely. ever think of that?'