Illustration by Kalah Allen

I commend your attempt to introduce theater to your young children, although why you chose the 100-minute-long monologue of An Iliad is beyond me. However, when only three minutes into the production your seven-year-old leans over to you and says, "I'm going to throw up," your correct response should have been to grab him by the arm and run for the bathroom. Instead you decided it would be smarter to pull his head into your lap and encourage him to barf on you instead. Once the two of you were completely glazed in what appeared to be rancid ice cream, it most certainly would have been high time to get up and get out. Instead, you asked your husband for your hat and gave it to your child as a puke bucket. Then, you mopped up the chunks in your lap with your scarf and settled in for the show, while the rest of us stewed in the stench of fresh vomit and your poor kid heaved and shivered until he passed out. What fucking planet are you from? I appreciate that your tickets were expensive, and that your exit might have disrupted the performance, but my seats cost just as much and you completely fucked the show for everyone within 20 feet of you, not to mention having ruined me on Homer for life. —Anonymous