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I'm out of breath after every practice session, and it's not because I'm playing beautiful music. It's because I'm wrestling with an instrument that seems to have a vendetta against my respiratory system. If I wanted to feel this winded, I would've stuck to jogging or, I don't know, blowing up balloons at a kids' party. And have you seen the size of the French horn case? It's like carrying around a sarcophagus. I feel like I should get a gym membership just to prepare for lugging this thing to and from rehearsals. Forget about weightlifting; just become a French horn player and build biceps while making questionable musical sounds.
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But reality hit me like a high note. The French horn is not a subtle instrument. It's more like a musical sledgehammer. As soon as I started playing, the pigeons in the vicinity took flight, car alarms went off, and my date gave me a look that said, "Is this a serenade or an emergency evacuation drill?" I realized I had inadvertently become the neighborhood alarm clock, announcing to everyone within a two-block radius that it was 8 PM and time to wake up from their nap. Note to self: next time, stick to a romantic dinner and spare the city from my musical declarations of love.
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Imagine trying to bring your French horn to a rock concert. You'll be the only one there with an instrument that looks like it time-traveled from the 18th century. People will be staring at you like, "Is this a music festival or a Renaissance fair?" And the unwritten rule of not playing during quiet moments in a conversation. I accidentally broke that one. My friend was pouring their heart out about a breakup, and I thought it was the perfect moment for some emotional French horn accompaniment. Needless to say, our friendship now has a soundproof barrier.
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