Everett

There was this kid I knew in France, but he wasn't French.  He was a troubled soul, and always had some emotional trauma brewing. I haven't actually spoken with him in many, many years, but he once told me a story of frustration. The details I don't remember, but the end, yes.  It went something like this:

"And I locked myself in the high school auditorium at night and pounded hours of songs out on the piano until my fingers bloodied the formerly white keys."

Yeah. Cool.  I'm not that kind of a guy, though. First, I can't play the piano. I wish I did.  Who knows, maybe I should get a player piano or something. It's a thought.

But what would I do with a player piano?  Well, if it were traded to me, I'd have to make sure it was complete and in working order, then I'd trade it on to a deserving party. If it were just given to me?  I'd use it to woo a woman. All those music playing guys seem to have a much easier time with women. Me? No, not hardly. So, I figure it must be the fact that my musical ability borders on the infantile.

Who knows, maybe I'm wrong, but women dig music. It must be the solution, right? Help me out folks ... I need all I can get!
.