Regret, like alcohol, is best savoured when alone but deepest drunk in the company of others. Alone, regret fills the palette, is enjoyed (or not), and one's appetite for it in a gradual wise expunged; in company, though, one drinks less discriminately, and while a greater portion may be imbibed the taste is not so harsh.
I marshall my regrets like fine wines; these are best-suited for consumption with friends, and these alone. These here I do not care to remember much of, for they are middling regrets, regrets of fancy, regrets best passed around and made cheap by overuse. These here I must wring the taste from, for they are the bitterest, the most cloying, the ones I must never forget the price of.