The conundrum swells within me, a gastronomic orchestra playing conflicting tunes. My stomach feels like a dam nearing its limit at 90%, yet my tastebuds have barely sampled half of the culinary symphony spread before me. It's as though I've listened to a melody but not the chorus. What is a soul to do when the remaining 10% beckons, yet a buffet of unexplored dishes calls out like sirens?
Suddenly, my wristwatch vibrates with an incoming message. The name "Kelly" seamlessly floats onto my retinal display, all courtesy of Dea, my dedicated AI. Kelly's voice, as soothing as the rustle of wind through autumn leaves, whispers, "Where are you?"
"In the heart of your birthday extravaganza, I believe," I murmur back, my eyes drifting over a landscape of hors d'oeuvres, mains, and desserts.
"Send me your coordinates, handsome. I'll make my way to you," she replies, her words tinged with the intrigue that has always defined her.