maybe the right amount of too much?

The opening is pure Jenna Maroney catastrophically misreading the room while being exquisitely, painfully aware of every social hierarchy within it: slightly cheap, kinda tacky bakery notes, cakey and buttery and creamed and caramelized, arriving a little too eager, a little too much, devoted to the bit even when the bit has stopped working. And then the dry down: desperately, magnificently delusional, believing herself the main character of every room she enters, and the funny thing is— she might totally be exactly that! A deeply heady, glamorous musk, high-end and Neiman Marcus-y perfumey and about 1000% too much, which is maybe juuuuust the right amount for someone who once performed a one-woman show about her own kidnapping and called it a healing journey. But...the rich ladies of Manhattan are not fooled. Jenna knows this, has always known this, will continue to know this through every luncheon she was not quite invited to, every gallery opening where no one recognizes her, every charity gala where the seating chart has placed her near the kitchen, She's standing there with her iced coffee and her silk scarf tied at the throat and her blowout and her oversized bag and her designer sunglasses and her small fluffy dog who doesn't know he's a prop and none of it matters, and the saddest part isn't that she can't have it, it's that she wants it. This is the audaciously tragic scent of chasing something not even worth having in the first place.