Sitting on the couch, having a grand old time, sipping on a cup of tea. Mother comes to tell me that dad is sick, and I must go to the Andrea Bocelli concert with her. "Get dressed in ten minutes".

Everybody, including my mother knows that he's feigning sickness. And he had to rub it in too. Lying in bed, puffing on his cigarette, watching T.V. God damnit. He's been planning this all along. Why didn't I see it earlier?

But then, the prospect of my mother driving herself there at night is daunting at best.

So there I was, sitting in the front row, all these rich women with enough jewelry that would even make Liz Taylor look pedestrian. They're all oogling at Bocelli while he screams out something Italian at the top of his lungs. Just stop it, he can't see you anyway.

I nodded off a few times, and that was that. Painful as it was, I just wanted to go home, spread my legs, and say 'cut them off'. It would be quite a mess, but much more endurable than this.

A bit too high class for me. My mother said that I should get used to stuff like this, in case if my girlfriend would want to participate in such sadism.

I just told her I'd rather be single...