Blame the Breeding

I am a Roman Princess. Stop laughing! Apparently, if you trace my mother's line, back...I mean WAAAAAAY back, I am a descendant of ancient roman nobility. I swear that mosaic looked like me...maybe that's why I was getting dirty looks when we were touring the Colosseum in '98. But it could be my imagination.

I am a Peasant Daughter too. My father comes from a LOOOOONG line of rural Sicilian farmers. And when I say rural, I mean it. You know, sleeping in a room with 10 other people, commuting to work via donkey, eating cactus for dinner and being thankful for it. Real hardcore, hardworking Catholics. So in conclusion:

My mother's family fed my father's family to the lions.

I have determined that this is why I am slightly schizophrenic. I have this insatiable need to punish myself and to enjoy it at the same time. Imagine what that revelation would have cost in psychiatry? We're talking a LOT of coin, (which should have my face on it by the way.) And while we're at it, where are the damn servants to clean my house and nurse my children - all 14 of them, to help out on the farm of course...

And though there may be cactus for dinner, it shall be cooked in orange blossom water and by someone else. After dinner, we'll hitch up the donkey to the chariot and go for a drive. And we'll catch the late show at the colosseum. Haven't yet decided if I'll watch or participate. Maybe a little of both!

See?

I wonder if my father knows about this...