❛ donna, i . . . ❜   it’s his chance. at long last. his stomach churns at the prospect of unloading his heavy tongue, dropping the bomb; it’s uncharacteristically quiet in the forman basement this evening . . . no fez, no kelso, no jackie  ( thank god ), no hyde even, who had become something of a bacterial growth on the basement couch for the last couple of years. no one stirring, not even a mouse . . . and it’s his chance. chance to say what he’s been building up to say nearly his entire childhood. like climbing all the way to the peak of a mountain and getting to the very edge, preparing to take that leap . . . but a piece of cliff crumbles off the side, and he realizes it’s actually really high. like really high . . . good god, would it be enough to kill him?