Ever since she turned twenty-two, she thought that she was being followed by some sort of sadistic, overwrought, perverted author who enjoyed putting her in short stories. The tortures were endless: she would be forced to eat liters and liters of banana juice, she was forced to enter grocery stores to ask for diapers and then filled them with pebbles, she was forced to lick the tires of cars, and to constantly cried about not finding books with titles that began with the letter K. She could hardly get any sleep during the nights, and whenever she woke up, she felt, the literary dreams and hopes and obsessions and germs flowing through her lonely, existentialist bones.
Lately, what was eating her nerves and forcing her smiles was that she continued hearing sounds following her. It turned out that whenever she said something, no matter what, would be followed by a: “Dun! Dun! Dun!”. Or whenever she felt like taking a stroll through the parks or the cities, a whistling followed her, along with nice smooth pianos and maybe a neat happy sax (if the day was cool and suave) and mournful, pappy sax (if the day was melancholic and hemorrhoid-filled). Or whenever she felt the urge of sexual desire, she would be tormented by the beats of trip hop and suave cellos. Or whenever she was not doing anything important, the same four-piece Los Brincos-infused patterns (guitar, bass, and drum) would play an endless loop until it drove her to bite her tongue and do anything, whatever necessary, to stop them.
She hated music from that day on and attempted, by all means with her own fingers, to squeeze it out of her system in any way she could imagine. She pinched her own eyes, and punched her nose, and made her fingers square, and thought of whiteness, endless rhythmless void, but the music followed her still. Screechy violins, broken glasses, dissonant mellotrons filled her rooms like the weird, pink ducks she had plastered all over the wallpaper.
“I am not crazy, please, please… talk to…ME!” she said but no one answered. She could swear she could hear soft guitar solos with backup singers while somebody laughed in the background. “Enough of enough, I say, it is time for me to play, if so you want I’ll do it myself and you will have one to love yourself.”
She paused and the music swirled around her triumphantly.
“Oh, no! I’m singing too even thought I hate these damn music tunes, I cannot stop and I hate to hop, but I am doing it all over and over again because now I feel like singing in rain.”
Around her, the world was fading and dozens and dozens of people were surrounding her. The scenery was perfect for everyone to make a choreographed dance and the world seemed like such a magical place to sing tunes, forever and forever.
A wailing beep, an orchestra director arose, and so the musical began. She, of course, was the main character and the only who mattered, and the one who went through a character arc, and the one who cried tears of joy and grief when everything was over.
For this was a musical written in words, a horrid, repugnant, godless creation.