Fuschia Jones

It’s hard being me.

The meticulously manicured hands loosens the purple paisley handkerchief from a slender neck and uses it to scream down an unreliable rope slung over a gorge and narrowly escape the marauding natives.

Bared mid-riffs are hot. But not for a duder-ette in middle school. They stuck my head in the toilet.

Poised artfully in a mirror’s reflection, the dapper queer chatters up a forlorn Medusa while applying eyeliner and lipgloss behind his back; afterwards, the monster smiles for the first time in centuries.

High school is hell. When I was fifteen, I started shaving. On the legs. I was made fun of.

His blonde fop rustles above a bird mask as he twirls his partner in a life and death dance of tango in a masquerade ball hosted by the Azathothic Illuminati.

They said I was too effeminate to be a globe-trotter. I showed them, didn’t I?

Our hero, bedecked in the colours of Old Glory, somersaults in mid-air, and catches the basketball to execute a seamless alley oop maneuver.

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