So, hey, if we hit April with a really big frying pan, she'll come to her senses, right?
Yes, yes! It's called 'therapy'. I read about it somewhere. Well, not 'read'. More like 'heard'. In a seedy tavern near the docks. After eleven thimbles of Merry Minstrum's Yellow Fire. Just before dawn. On a Monday. But I Remember the fella who told me! Big lad. Arms as thick as oak trees. A stunning collection of scars. Nice eye-patch. A real therapist he was. Or wait... maybe he was 'rapist'...