It was there that a wandering monk found me some years later, fully grown and stunted. I spoke no language and wore only a thin layer of ice for clothing. The monk attempted nurse me to health by making me drink from leathery, mouldering teats that it was carrying around. The milk was foul: it smelled like ammonia and had the texture of half-melted licorice.
Being sixteen and never having eaten previously, I assumed that this was what all food tasted like. Disgust for your species took root in the tangled web of gas-bladders that form my heart, even though I now know that not all of your food is so sour and corrosive.
Consider your next actions carefully, humankind. I am watching.