[Karkat starts to write a lot of things all of which gets scribbled out then he just lobs his journal at Dave.]

A haiku isn't even close to a sonnet you weeping puss ball. Could you for one minute be anything other than a massively non-sexual and very infectious pain in the arse? Because really I'm starting to wonder about that after four years of being subjected to you without the aid of any topical cream.

And I also fail to see what the fuck John has to do with anything, dipshit.