Girlfriend in a Coma: Vegas Diaries
When I was on my way home with the passed out Princeton, I made the decision that the next day I was going to channel my inner Victorian woman and spend the day "a bed." I wasn't going to deal with Captain Personality AKA the Frog Prince, the Showgirl and her "I don't need a man but don't mind me while I do a backbend in order to turn my self into an end table in order to fulfill his needs" rant, and even dear Princeton. I didn't want to deal with any of them. So I decided I was going to spend the day soaking in a decadent tub and smoking cigarettes by the pool contemplating the blue sky and the palm trees.

A digression about class and my background. Although I'm sure my students think that I come from the upper class and can trace my family back to Wayne Stately Manor, the type of family that looks back fondly on the Victorian era, the truth is I come from a long line of blackballed people. On my mother's side, my great grandparents were Irish during the era of Irish Need Not Apply. In fact, my great grandfather was well known not only for his alcoholism but for deciding to live out in the middle of nowhere so he could abuse his wife and not bother to work (hence the proclivity on that side of the family to hunt). My grandparents on my father's side were Jews who escaped from the Holocaust. They came to America just in time to find themselves silently blocked from employment, school enrollment, home ownership, and club membership. So I come from people who know from prejudice.

But I figured that my grandmother wasn't smuggled out of Poland in a suitcase so I could suffer the hypocrisy of a nearly six foot blonde woman without the reassurance of a utterly sinful bath.

Princeton and the Showgirl gently woke me the next day. I was slightly hungover, but surprised considering their respective conditions that they were showered, dressed, chipper, and inviting me out to breakfast. I told them I would prefer to sleep for a little bit longer, I mean who has breakfast in the morning in Vegas? But secretly I was thinking of the internet hook up I saw in the "entertainment" room. You know the one with the oh so tasteful neon light up beer signs. Because nothing says emotional maturity like beer signs. If I ever fall in love in love with a man who has neon beer signs anywhere in his house, you have my permission to kill me. You even have my permission to torture me a little first.

After they left, I transferred myself to my own bedroom expecting to sleep another hour or so and be fine.

It is well known that I am given to migraines. Migraines can be caused by a variety of different triggers: dehydration, emotional stress, hormone fluctuation, and caffeine withdrawal. What I didn't know was that I was going to get my period a week early. That alone can trigger a migraine. Top that off with the emotional stress of coping with a drunken gay banker in a fairly unknown city and it's fairly impressive I didn't have a migraine the whole time I was there. So when I woke up with a fullblown don't move, talk, breathe, think in my general direction migraine, I shouldn't have been surprised.

In a way the migraine was my passive aggressive way of justifying not spending the day with them. What I would later discover from Princeton is that the migraine saved me from more unneeded emotional distress and in a way saved the rest of the vacation. Even unconscious and in pain, I am one of America's heroes.

Just agree.

Unknown to me, the Showgirl had slept on the couch. When she woke Princeton up in the morning, she was ranting about going home immediately. Princeton dragged her to breakfast and talked some sense to her, or more likely talked money to her-it was simply cheaper to stay the ride out than go home early. At that point, I only seemed lightly hung over to them, but as the day went on, they were worried that I was really sick. My inability to talk or even open my eyes for fear of my brain exploding helped Princeton's argument that they should simply stay the course-have the best time possible and ignore the Frog Prince.

It is lucky for all involved I wasn't privy to this series of discussions because I definitely would have become violent. As it was I could barely tolerate lying in a dark room not moving. Through the day they kept checking on me, bringing me glasses of water, asking if there was anything they could get me, and in general doing everything they could to make the whole experience worse. Frog Prince was working, again, and Princeton and the Showgirl found themselves alone with the car so what did they do? Think: you, vegas, friend, car-what would you do? They went to a couple of open houses. Yep, that's what they did with their time in Vegas-they looked at houses they weren't going to buy.

I never thought I would be so happy to have a migraine.

What I didn't know was that my illness would save me from the one planned event for the trip. Foreigner, yes, Foreigner was going to play Texas Station, and Frog Prince had gotten tickets. The one event he had bother to plan for us. This was supposed to be the big surprise. The Showgirl and Princeton came into my room to try and coax me out. Instead of waking me up they became sidetracked by my clothes-the tops from Italy and Paris- thinking I was asleep Princeton said to the Showgirl "She really knows her clothes" with more surprise than I thought justified.

Around eleven at night, after my period arrived explaining my day of pain, I felt well enough to venture into the kitchen for tea. After I downed the tea, I managed to find some leftover pie and some pumpkin muffins and then I attempted to find something decent on tv. I settled on Dog Soldiers on the Scifi channel. After it was over, I took a long bath partially to feel better but mainly because I didn't want to haul all my bath products back home. Around one or so the pack returned to find me healed. They had brought me a towel sweated upon by Foreigner. Princeton made me put in my bag right away. I still have it in my apartment. I don't what to do with it. What does one do with a sweaty Foreigner towel? Craft project anyone?

We all ended up in the hot tub again, no nudity, while I explained my migraines. The Showgirl said a few times "Well if you have migraines maybe you shouldn't drink." I didn't feel like explaining to her it wasn't the liquor that most likely induced the migraine and that it was pretty much the only thing preserving last vestiges of my sanity and saving the rest from a general blood bath the likes of which haven't been seen since Caligula's last house party. After the hot tub we all decided to call it a night. I stayed up packing my bag thankful to leave the next afternoon.

Coming soon: Fascination and Leaving Las Vegas

Courtesy of Fillerbunni: Wolf Creek the Domestic Drama

Oh sure, Wolf Creek made the life of a serial killer seem like it's all good times-running college students off the road, poisoning rain water, visiting really really empty national parks. But what about the unseen domestic life of a serial killer? We here at Bunniblog will now attempt to give you a hidden peek into the life of the Wolf Creek Killer.

(Killer wiping bloody knife on dirty rag happens to look at his watch.)

Killer: Crickey! I gotta get home to Bunni! I can't be late again.

(cut to interior shot of kitchen-Bunni in apron is putting a cake in the oven-the front door slams-Killer appears with a makeshift bouquet of dessert flowers)

Killer: How is my honey bunni?

Bunni: Listen Mister you better not be tracking dead college student all over my carpet again. I just did these floors.

Killer: Sorry, dear.

Bunni: And don't talk so loud. My cake will fall.

Killer: Blimey, but you're a demanding woman. Makes me wonder why I ever settled down instead of just keeping women tied up in the garage.

(Bunni approaches brandishing a vegetable peeler.)

Bunni: How about my innovative ideas about body disposal involving household items, an airtight alibi, and the fact that at some point tonight you will be lying next to me unconscious?

Killer: Ah, you're such a good sheila. You always say such romantic things.

(Couple embraces. Killer seizes Bunni with pasion. As he does, a severed hand falls to the floor.Killer looks at Bunni)

Killer: Please tell me that isn't the mailman. That's the third one this month. At this rate I'll never get my copy of Film Threat. You know how much I was looking forward to reading the article comparing the work of Ron Atkins to Bertold Brecht.

Bunni: Hey, everyone need a hobby.

Additional Writing Credit: Kiss Kiss

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