“Mom, do you remember when I was little and sick, you used to spend the night on my headrest, change the compresses and measure the fever with a kiss on the cuticle? Remember what you were saying to me then, Mom? “What have I done to you that torment me like this? Why aren't you a good boy? Why do you bully me?” I heard you monologue above my head, a candle lit by my side, and I couldn't understand Mom, I couldn't understand what you meant, Mom, because, Mom, I didn't want to get sick, I didn't want to raise a fever. I didn't do it on purpose, Mom. Believe me, I didn't mean to torture you, Mom. Don't cry, Mom. Mom? Don't cry anymore. I can't stand it when you cry. Mom? Aren't you going to get laid, Mom? HUH? Aren't you going to get laid like you've never been laid in your life?”