Guilty as charged

Last night was my first choir practice. I love Bach, so I'm in shock at how viciously I murdered him. Questa é una autodenunciata. Last night, I butchered him like Don José butchered Carmen while Escamillo butchered the bull. Poor Bach. The events of the night forced certain official conclusions:


1. Mezzo sopranos have to do too much bloody work
2. I have no idea how to read music
3. I probably never did
4. This choir is the wrong place to meet a really hot baritone
5. The choir master will tolerate any incompetence that's encased in a revealing enough shirt

Point 5 makes me love Italians. They're so nice and predictable. And on top of that, the choirmaster is a vivacious, booming baritone who yells at us (in Italian, of course). Sadly, this choirmaster is in his late 50's, early 60's, which isn't in my range. Tant pis.

Nice, predictable Italians. . . I always keep coming back to the Italians because I understand them, and then bounce back to the blondes because they're a complete mystery to me. I've got a passion for the 'loose' ones of both categories. I'm damn tired of disrespecting men, but God loves a slut and so do I, I suppose. I'm not sure they're any more sexually competent, I think it's something else. Maybe it's the sensation of being picked from a crowd, chosen and special; maybe it's too many Cinderella stories as a child. Thanks, Walt Disney, you fucking Nazi prick.