I know all of you are dying for more of Italian adventures, but I haven't downloaded the pix yet, so I am going to offer a few stall posts so that when I do blog about Italy it will be a proper entry complete with fabulous Bunni pix. In the interim, I offer you this post.

Aristotelian Tragedy: Another Saturday Night

Can Such Resentment Hold the Minds of Gods?-The Aeneid

So Nice Guy Eddie and I have our standard every two month "And so this is what is happening in my life so far" wings and beer extravaganza. Finally he asks that question.

NGE: So you seeing anyone?

Bunni: Um, yes actually I am.

NGE: Another french guy?

Bunni: Nope.

NGE: But he's not American right?

Bunni: Depends on what you mean by American? He is an American citizen, yes.

NGE: OK well that's a step. But he's not from here is he?

Bunni: No, not really.

NGE: Do you have some sort of things where you only date men from the EU?

Bunni: He is not from the EU.

NGE: Oh christ. What are you dating, a wombat? Is he from Australia?

And things go on in this vein for a while.

NGE: So is it serious?

Bunni: Look we haven't even been able to stay in the same country for a month.

NGE: Well what is he then?

Bunni: What do you mean what is he? I haven't crossed the species divide yet.

NGE: I mean, is he your boyfriend or what?

Bunni: Um, well, I haven't really come up with a title yet. I like to think of him as my Grand High Vizier of the Imperial Male Harem, which you know means at any moment I can demote him to towel boy.

NGE: So what is he doing tonight?

Bunni: I don't know.

NGE: What do you mean you don't know?

Bunni: What is this? Clinton's deposition? How many ways can you interpret that particular set of words?

NGE: Call him.

Bunni: What?

NGE: Call him and say you've been watching Russian porn all day and he needs to come over.

Bunni puts her head down on the bar and invokes the names of several non existent dieties to come to her aide.

Finally NGE walks me home. Mu calls, and I end up headed towards my local. I am sitting in the window drinking beer with Mu and Abby when I realize down at the other end of the bar is Texas T. I point to her and ask Mu about it.

Bunni: So what's up with T and Irish Eyes?

Mu: Well he comes in here today, actually. I had to take a bottle off him and give him juice and he starts crying because you know he has this liver disease and the doctors have told him that he has two months to live, but he can't stop drinking.

Bunni: Jesus Christ.

Mu: I know, I know. He's been in detox for two months.

Bunni: But he keeps on coming in here and drinking. I've seen him.

Mu: We all have.

Bunni: So did T and he get married?

Mu: He's going to die in two months.

Bunni: Hey look the ONLY circumstances under which I would get married would be if I had two months to live. Maybe he wants to will her...I don't know...but there are people who get married when they are dying.

Mu: Well, no, they aren't getting married.

T is down at the end of the bar. By herself. Not even talking to anyone. She gets drunk and stumbles to a cab. And there is that sick awful part of myself that is satisfied, that takes pleasure in knowing that she isn't getting married, that things aren't going well for her. I order another beer to put that part of my mind to sleep.

Mitch, the idiot who actually once said to me "I am not in the right emotional place to have sex right now" a sentiment that wouldn't have been quite so offensive if he hadn't ripped off all my clothes on his bed first, did a cursory cruise of the bar. He's losing his hair and he looked pale and haggard.

Mu, Abby, the Amazon and I end up at the end of the bar drinking Sol and dancing to U2 for whatever reason. I am almost at the end of the Aeneid, which is one of the worst things I've ever read. At one point there is a war over a deer. One deer. Not even a herd, a whole war over a freakin' deer. I mean, I keep hearing that a war over oil is ridiculous, but this was a war over a deer. As I told Bakerina, the Romans were the ones you wanted to do your plumbing. You want an amphitheater or a bath or a road, the Romans were you're people, but epic poetry was not their strong suit. (Of course now some is going to post some snarky remark featuring a fabulous epic poem by a Roman.)

It is the type of thing that drives a girl to drink. Of course with me, that's always a short trip.

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