"What do you really want me to say, Bones?"

[Kirk glares at him, wincing a little bit because his headache is coming back full force.]

"That I have fucking problems? Gold star to you for that one. You must be fucking psychic or something to figure that one out." [His tone is scathing and sarcastic and full of twenty five years of bitterness.]

"And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather not dwell on them. Can't do anything about them now. Nero's dead. So whatever. Moving on time."