KRISTEN: No, Dax.
DAX: It’s done now.
KRISTEN: No, don’t make me go over there
DAX: It’s too late.
KRISTEN: It’s never too late. Tell them I’m going to throw up. Tell them my ankles just swelled up. Tell them…
DAX: They’ve seen you, Kristen. You have to suck it up.
KRISTEN: But I have regrets, Dax. Big ones.
DAX: JUST DO IT. LET IT GO AND WE CAN GO HOME.
KRISTEN: I didn’t sing that one.
DAX: It doesn’t matter. Smile and dream of sloths and it’ll all be over soon.
KRISTEN: Fine. Here goes.
The shoes are cute. I could even maybe live with the pants, if she wore them with a simple tank top and a great bracelet, and maybe a long necklace; the trou and I might not have chosen each other, but we could’ve learned to live with one another’s quirks, and maybe even developed a mutual respect brought on by a shared love of Branston sweet pickle (not everyone understands how great it is, see). But the whole thing together feels like a dandelion womb bag being attacked by a swarm of bees. All I feel is poking and burning and tears, but with none of the promise of honey.