A woman who’s never felt true love is kinda like a grasshopper bouncing around a field, hunting for the fattest blade of grass to settle on. She hops from one to another, inspecting, tasting, weighing her options, thinking the next one might be juicier or more satisfying. The field’s full of potential, but no blade ever quite hits the spot—some too thin, others just plain withered. Deep down, it’s not really about the grass; it’s about the emptiness inside that no blade, no matter how thick, can fill. In the end, life’s a game of musical chairs: while she’s busy looking for the perfect seat, someone else sits down and makes it theirs. One loses, another finds — simple as that.
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