My name is more famous than my face. Do you know how that feels? Let me tell you. Not good. That's how it feels. So I'm putting this out there so you will remember me. My name is Mozart. I composed all those masterpieces, not that weird guy with the wig. He's the reason I have trust issues. Anyway, my story is very different than his. My only job and purpose in the world is being a piano. It's sort of a full-time occupation. Good thing I like it, right? Otherwise I'd totally be bitter like that famous fraud who stole my glory. And I'm not even close to that. I don't have a family, although I did dream once that I married a Bosendorfer. We were happy. But alas, it was not so. Instead, some woodworker built me and sanded me until I looked like this. Then he left me, his prized masterpiece, in the center of the shop until that fake who claimed my fame bought me with his mother's money. Then it was my duty to compose something beautiful on the spot while he pounded on my poor keys, his fingers slipping and playing chords that are never supposed to happen. Oddly enough, those were my glory days. I thrived under the pressure that buffoon put me under. If something went wrong, he blamed me. I was out of tune or my frame was bent, or my pedals weren't releasing properly. Things haven't been the same since though. Sometimes I miss that poor guy. He really was trying.
