There is nothing wrong with arguing with yourself. It's when you LOSE when it becomes weird.

Halt regarded him. He loved Horace like a younger brother. Even like a second son, after will. He admired his skill with a sword and his courage in battle. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt an overwhelming desire to ram the young warrior's head against a convenient tree.

You'll want something mid-range. A 5.56 all right?"
"I suppose."
"AR-15?"
"Ugh. AR-15? I'd rather not have my gun break down on me every second week." Besides, every wannabe and their dog had an M16 or M4 variant these days.
"G7."
"Not accurate enough."
"FAL?"
"A 7.62? Maybe," I said. "Though I hate the triggers."
"As picky as a woman with her shoes," Abraham grumbled.
"Hey," I said. "That's insulting." I knew plenty of women who were pickier with their guns than they were with their shoes.

Graham's life is as tense as an overstretched simile.

Nothing so fortifies a friendship as a belief on the part of one friend that he is superior to the other.

It's not so bad."
Melancholia looked at her. "You're lying."
"I'll get used to it. So will you."
"I... I don't think I'll be able to."
"I'll be there to help when you need it."
"But I hate you."
Valkyrie smiled. "No you don't."
"No, I do. I want to kill you and stuff."
"We actually became friends in those caves."
"That's not what happened, " said Melancholia.
"We're pals. We're buddies.”
"If my wrists weren't in shackles, my hands would be round your throat."
"You want to hug my throat because we're friends.