The answer my friend is the cost basis for transitioning. You've got this portico carrara and it needs some attention but caving in to spitballing leaves you with croque-monsieur minus the good part. That's about all the conflagration of practical sense that can be tolerated so here's the scoop:

Tommy can you hear me? Trying to parse my pain in the arse is essentially the easter egg uncannily resembling Tina Fey saying “You can’t be that kid standing at the top of the waterslide, overthinking it. You have to go down the chute.” The chute here is flirting with destiny with your silent partner up in smoke and you just love her. I like sitar music but Norah distracts me from her dad and therein lies the Slab City paradigm, your hiatus doesn't make my reverie moot. So here's what solidifies: I'm exuberant but let's not overstate the eat like no one's watching part. Or dancing whatever.

Stupid cupid stop picking on me. The blankets blend with the mac and cheese staging a Valentines hurrah perfect for the situation.

Going forward vis a vis backwards is most desired