Ockeghem: You unironically believe that Death is beautiful. You are vocal about this belief.
Morales: You find the Lothlórien foliage from the Fellowship of the Ring a complete turn-on.
Guerrero: You are a sedevacantist.
Brahms: You have a very specific and unforgiving order of stacking plates and cups in your cabinets. Your partner doesn’t buy it.
Victoria: You, an American, went to “university,” where you discovered you held very strong opinions about Requiem masses. None of your “friends” cared.
Zelenka: You think more requiems should sound like Verdi’s.
Verdi: You have taken at least one individual to see this on a date that they did not know it was a date.
The other Zelenka: You’ve fantasized about the splendor of your own funeral. You’re too good for the Mozart requiem, huh?
Mozart: At least once, you’ve accidentally started a fire during an intimate, candle-lit dinner in your apartment. You were decidedly not drunk.
Cherubini: You believe you were royalty in a past life. You’d like to listen to the Mozart but don’t have the time.
Plantade: You believe you were royalty in a past life. You’d like to listen to literally any opera but don’t have the time.
Salieri: You contrarian motherfucker.
Berlioz: You know how to get rid of a body.
Saint-Saëns: You have eloped with the irascible parish organist. Philately is your kink.
Fauré: Someone very close to you has given you a “live, laugh, love” print, and you don’t have the heart to tell them how you felt about it.
Dvořák: Your parents never furnished you with voice lessons. You ruin every Thanksgiving when you remind them of this.
Delius: You have been forbidden from attending any alumni events held by your élite alma mater’s première literary society.
Duruflé: You taught yourself Latin, and now phrases like “vita incerta, mors certissima” are staples of everyday conversation. You pay too much for your glasses.
Britten: Whenever you talk about your favorite soccer — sorry, football — team, it is always a matter of “we.” God Save the BBC.
Stravinsky: You don’t see the problem with wearing black Air Force Ones to a funeral.
Penderecki: You’ve had a relationship end because you spent too much money on Criterion Collection DVDs.
DeMars: You have a black friend.
Marsalis: You are a black friend.
Jethro Tull: You take incredible pride in your digestive health.
Bruckner: You enjoy making elaborate plots against people who have wronged you, but you lack the constitution or absence of empathy required to bring said plots to fruition. This makes you very sad.
Lloyd Webber: Cats, man.