And for some strange reason I am calm about it. Now, this may be because I'm busy trying to deal with the Side Effects from Hell I've gotten from my new medication (now discontinued) prescribed to treat the gastroparesis, but I get the feeling I'd feel like this anyway. There comes a point where expectation descends to reality, and I've always been a pessimistic bitch. I'll be rooting for Inter now, should they (miracle of all miracles) manage to whup Liverpool's arse come next Tuesday, and that strange twist of fate aside, I'll be cheering on Arsenal. Whom, despite how much I wanted them to lose tonight, I cannot begrudge the win. Not with Cesc's little fox ears up in glee, and Phil's bald, bald Swiss head shinning in the light of victory.
I weep only because this was Paolo's last night in Europe, and it reminds us that we are just that much closer to his Last Night of All. (Which will be, ironically enough, the derby. Oh football, how narrative necessity controls you.)
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