How To Tell If You Are In A Famous Opera -The Toast

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bohemePreviously in this series.

You are a man who spends literally hours ranting about how the fairer sex cannot be trusted, yet you have never been faithful to anyone.

You are a woman and two possessive alpha males, both armed, are fighting over you. You’re surprised when this ends badly. 

You employ a large retinue of servants far more worldly-wise than you whose only duties include dusting invisible furniture and giving you unsolicited romantic advice.

You find that you are never too busy to tell complete strangers about your all-consuming plans for revenge.

You discover that you have been flirting with your own brother and think, eh. I could do worse.

You join the priesthood to get over your ex, and end up having sex with her in a church.

You are supposed to be some sort of Asian, you think, and this fact makes everyone just a little bit uncomfortable.

You are an artist, and you are broke and your apartment is a dump. Maybe this is because you spend all your time singing and carrying on ill-advised love affairs and never actually create any art to sell?

You are a nobleman with a spacious yet sparsely furnished mansion, and even though your assorted relatives, friends, and neighbors have their own residences, all the action seems to take place in your living room.

A fan has caused a great deal of trouble at one of your balls.

Incriminating letters never seem to be right where you left them.

Is it just you, or is your young ward suddenly looking irresistible?

Everyone knows which tenor you will ultimately end up with, but this does not stop you from dallying with a smoldering baritone, two spear-carrying foreigners, and a mezzo in trousers.

Everyone tacitly agrees not to discuss the fact that your lover has far more romantic chemistry with his best friend than he does with you.

You go to a lot of parties, but no one ever eats anything; they just stand around making a lot of toasts and occasionally engaging in fisticuffs.

Literally the only “hiding place” that ever occurs to you is under the master’s bed.

You spy on people through keyholes and get exactly what you deserve.

You could not succeed in seducing your maid if your life depended on it.

The magistrate’s daughter is promised to another. You despair.

Your headstrong offspring refuses to obey you. You despair.

Your wealthy if unscrupulous patron offers to set you up for life, but you cannot forget the pure love you once knew in squalor. You despair.

The Devil seems like a perfectly reasonable person to ask for advice.

The dashing newcomer in town bears a striking resemblance to your long-lost soul mate, but your soul mate would never wear an outfit like that.

Your ex is a scoundrel, a bigamist, and a colonialist oppressor. How are you supposed to get over a catch like that?

You have no real friends, only rivals masquerading as friends who want to steal your lover.

Let those who have not been imprisoned for theft/a crime of passion/failing to kiss the appropriate nobleman’s ass cast the first stone, that’s what you always say.

Your beloved is headed off to war — never mind which war, it couldn’t matter less. The two of you sing about glorious goodbye sex instead of actually having it.

Someone has stabbed you! It’s unfortunate, to be sure, but it does not interfere with your ability to sing.

Everyone knows which tenor you will ultimately end up with, but this does not stop you from dallying with a smoldering baritone, two spear-carrying foreigners, and a mezzo in trousers.

Although you are bedridden with tuberculosis or possibly a broken heart, same difference really, you still manage to find the lung capacity for two more arias and a farewell duet.

You announce, dramatically and at great length, that you would rather perish than live without your love, leaving fate no choice but to call your bluff.

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