The 4 Movements

Perfume fills the room…
First line of thinking
Opening sonata-Well, at least somebody likes you for goodness sake, you’re not getting any younger and you’ll be dead soon and listen, this might be your last chance to find a guy who will tolerate all of your unladylike ways so you better jump on it girl, its half past too late as it is. (Paranoia on the wings of strings)
Second line at the same time– Great, just great. You’re only worth the company that you keep and since you aren’t keeping any apparently to the world you simply ain’t shit. Now you can go ahead and buy into this madness of love and connection, but as your brain, I’m not coming along for the ride, because it’s stupid and archaic and played out and fiction. Keep me drunk if you’re just going to live your life worried about whether or not you are sufficient arm candy for some corny country clown who actually is the one who can’t make it on his own. Hrmph! If you stick with me kid, we will survive. We don’t need anyone else and if you disagree then I do not want to be sober ever again. Leave me alone! (Disdain drumming softy into an out of control frenzy)
Third line, intertwined between the first and second linesAdagio-If I’m honest, hon, you need therapy. You clearly have severe depression, or probably PMDD, or probably PSTD or some kind of blend of narcissistic codependency with abandonment issues or more than likely you are living with borderline personality disorder, or all that rolled into one because its obvious, that you need some serious help. You’re crazy. (Flighty floral flute solo fragrantly bursts open onto banging cymbal seas)
Fourth line jumbled in– He doesn’t really want you. You just look good next to him. He has already told you he has had bad experiences with women who couldn’t tell that they were just for sex. He already told you he’s been shot at. He already told you he is a terrible procrastinator. He’s already said that everything that he has done in life ain’t shit. He’s never even been to New York City, girl. He already said he has high blood pressure and diabetes and he is only 40. He already said that he passed out at Thanksgiving from drinking. You already told him that he lives too far away to date you anyway and he still is in your phone every single day talking about how you are a beautiful, intelligent, strong black woman and that he is a pharaoh who needs a queen by his side to feel whole and oh by the way that he expects his partner to do shit that they don’t want to do just to be with him. You already know that he’s average if anything in bed and that although he isn’t horrible to look at, he doesn’t make you swoon. He asked you if you still like books and shit, which has to have been the biggest red flag in the fucking world since writing is probably the only thing that keeps you alive. His favorite musician is Keith Sweat. He creases his jeans, for fucks sake. Its simply not a match. Stop feeling guilty. Stop. Feeling. Guilty. (The piano screams. The cello screams)
Fifth line, cascading in, atop 1-4Scherzo with trio-Use him. Use him like you use everyone else until someone better comes along. Someone better always comes along and no, the better person never settles for you but at least you have something to strive for, something that makes your heart skip, so if this idiot, like all of the other idiots who seem to dote on you wants to spend all of his free time trying to love you, let him but never give in and never give up on finding the one and in the meantime, what’s the harm in letting someone tell you that you are fantastic? Use him. Whatever happens to his heart is his own fault. Use him like he is trying to use you. (Winding whiny woodwinds wither out)
Sixth line, the bass line, underneath 1-5Allegro-None of this is real. None of this matters. All of this is illusion. All of this is temporary. None of this is real. Even your feelings. Even your body. None of this matters. Even relationships. Even your money. All of this is illusion. Nobody cares. Nobody will. Nothing lasts for ever. All of this is temporary. Relax into nothingness, only do what feels good….(The sultry crescendo collapses)
Perfume fades away…

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