I'm about to decamp to escort two 13-year-old girls--one of them my own spawn, gone terribly wrong--to a somebody/something called a 'Katy Perry movie,' at which I expect deification rites to be performed by the adolescent collectivity, in preparation for the former's Ascension.
Pray for me. And if there's a God in heaven, He'll afflict and thereby bless me with some impermanent form of paralytic coma, post-ticket purchase yet pre-show. If He doesn't, the "movie" will.
Update: I chickened out.
My faith in the Almighty and fresh miracles is that weak.
With cowardly trepidation but Machiavellian foresight, I stowed a Shakespeare play in my back pocket, dropped the girls off at the theatre and fled to the farthest oil-change shop, where, for once, I begged them to take their bloody time.
I later atoned for my unfatherly sin of brutal indifference, however, by taking my daughter to the mall, where she invested in a Harry Stiles! beanie (with my debit card).
Post-upped update: No, I can't let it pass. A kind reader gently corrected my misspelling of "Styles," above, and I promptly promised myself a dose of Mitt Romney's wei wu, or wei wu wei, management Style (translated loosely as "not doing" and "doing by not doing," respectively), and leaving it be. But just knowing of this thoughtless transgression committed against the One-Directional pop culture so beloved by my daughter causes me, after all, to submit this corrigendum.