I use to date an opera fan

It was my initial attraction, even. After all the dolts and dipshits and loud computer pop fans, it was nice to look someone in their eyes, whisper “Kardashian”, and have have them stare back blankly.

She played the oboe and, at the time, I didn’t even know what an oboe was. The idea, though, that she played an instrument I had never heard of made her even more attractive.

I was all about this girl. She was like no other and, honestly, isn’t that what you want in a girl?

It’s what I want, anyways.

We dated. We had some background, in the classical music field anyway. My mom was a classical pianist. The first music I ever heard was Beethoven, per my mother, who insisted on such.

“When you were a baby, all I played you was Beethoven.”

I hear the Moonlight Sonata in my dreams, but nevertheless became a punk fan.

She tried. Give her that.

This girl, though, obviously reminded me of my mother. Smart, accomplished, musical, classical. I was hip to the whole Oedipal thing right away.

She was different from my mother in many ways. She was blonde, my mother had black hair. Um…

Trust me. DIFFERENT!

Living in South Dakota I was pretty safe from operas–until one day some “troupe” that had performed in New York City and San Francisco (as if those places were special or something) was going to be here to perform Pagliacci. The cast was, like, all the seconds in the real show, or some shit.

$90 a ticket and she bought for both of us, without even asking me. Just assuming.

The whole time I’m thinking, is sex really worth this?

Anyway, the day came and I told her I was sick.

“Sick? All of a sudden you’re sick?”

Yeah, she didn’t believe me and we broke up.

I really liked her, too. I did. She was so smart and talented. And sexy. Oh boy I didn’t talk about that above and won’t now, being a gentleman, but yeah.

I miss her, but, hey at least I didn’t have to go to a fucking opera.

*weak fist pump*