I find myself forcing a laugh, a smile, I find myself forcing everything. I stand with Ian, laughing at offensive Keemstar videos, as if we’re any better. I sit at a table with friends eating cake made of our own vomit. Acting as jesters for prepubescent boys.
I find myself yelling slurs in a field wearing a polyester pink suit. I chase after the elusive “Chin-Chin”; my doppelganger dressed in black. He asks for my chromosomes.
Sometimes I wish I really was Chin-Chin, a man with purpose. I almost wish I had chromosomes to offer him.
As I make these videos I discover something profound.
A story.
Between the sea of slurs, obscenities, and vomit, there is a story. I have created an entire world.
Is this something anyone could do?
Do I have a gift of some sorts?
As the times and cultures change, I find my place in internet culture dwindling. Like a fire without wood, my permanence is fleeting.
I realize I must make a change.
Knowing how to adapt is a skill elusive to many, me included.
But, suddenly, I find myself turning to something I only ever dreamed of. Music.
Pink Season is a success.
A musical “comedy” album of sorts.
I find it again.
I find myself tapped into the pulse.
But yet, I am still the jester.
Now the trick has just changed.
The only difference being that the obscenities are uttered into melody and rhyme.
Pink Guy I must let you go.
Pink Guy, I don’t know what to do.
Pink Guy, who am I without you?
Pink Guy, does anyone even know that’s not my name?
Pink Guy, I can’t let you go.
Pink Guy, I will make you a swan song.
Pink Guy, I will write you a book.
By my word you will adapt with the time.
Frances of Filth.
My magnum opus.
My storytelling finally gives way to something with permanence. I can make a piece of art not tied down by the hungers of a pubescent teenager. I realize that I can make something that lasts longer than puberty. I am praised for my writing, my wit, my worldbuilding, everything. Just enough to tell me what I knew deep down.
I am more than Pink Guy.
With this novel I give him my final goodbye.
Now I am just George.
Pink Guy is gone from inside me.
FilthyFrank is a name only used in past tense.
George is simply a person.
But George is not someone I want to be.
George isn’t funny.
George isn’t talented.
George doesn’t even know how to sing.
But, suddenly, I find someone who does.
His name is Joji.
Casey McGlynn is a sophomore screenwriting major who keeps ravioli in a shirt pocket just in case. You can reach Casey at [email protected].